Façade
by atlasky
Summary: And it was a wonder how they even managed to work in the first place, given all they had ever told each other were nothing but lies. [Mr. & Mrs. Smith AU]
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** Do not own.

 **Author's note:** Honestly intended this to be a one-shot. And then it spiraled out of control. And 100% sorry for my writing in general. Plotholes. Major plotholes everywhere. I'm never not sorry. Thanks to deadlyromanova who urged me to finally post this thing that has been rotting in my laptop since forever.

 _._

 **Façade**

 **[a Mr. & Mrs. Smith AU]**

 _._

He saw her first.

"—yeah, see. And then I told Pepper that this is your first big break and she said that's a lousy excuse because I'm just trying to escape my responsibilities and that you'll understand because she'll be the one coming there instead and also because I had promised her that I would finish this paperwork and attend like, a thousand meetings apparently."

Steve chuckled into the phone that was pressed to his left ear. "I already saw her; but she left because of some emergency that I assume was your fault. And I'm sure it's not a thousand meetings."

He could practically hear the smugness in Tony's voice. "She said _attend_ the meetings. Not _participate_. That may or may not have pissed some government officials. But hey, fuck them."

Steve sighed. "You can't possibly still be pissed about the incident a month ago."

"Spangles, nobody mess with my tech. _Nobody_."

Steve knew why, the incident in Afghanistan really opened Tony's eyes. Since then, the man had fought teeth and nails to make sure nothing remotely similar would happen again. "I know."

"I gotta go, Pepper's here. Good luck with the show, Cap."

"Sure," Steve said. "And Tony—thanks again for the opportunity."

"You earned it."

The call disconnected and Steve put his phone back into his pocket. His eyes darted around the exhibition room. Various paintings and sculptured were positioned around the huge hall, and he honestly felt a bit nervous. He had spent four months arranging every little thing of the Stark art exhibition, and now when the day finally came he just hoped everything would go as smoothly as possible. The room was crowded though, and he took it as a good sign.

It had been three years after the ice. Time had passed, moving on as if he hadn't just lost his whole life. He had woken from his apparent death and had been told that the war was over, that there was no need to fight anymore and that life as he knew it was gone. But that was also a lie, because now what the world had was still not peace, instead it was something else—a bit more deadly, a bit more dangerous. A bit more hidden.

And it had been hard—he had swallowed himself in SHIELD missions and assignments, not allowing himself a second to wallow. Until one day, Fury had thrown him into the Avengers initiative. It wasn't something he had expected, and he still couldn't wrap his head around it sometimes. He had met Tony, Clint, Bruce, and Thor—yes, _that_ Thor from _that_ mythology. It was weird. But he himself had been frozen for so many years and literally grown inches because of a serum, so. His life had just become a long list of weird.

The Avengers was a covert initiative SHIELD had assembled as a response team to dire emergency situations the military or other agencies couldn't handle. They were individuals with different _abilities_ , and it had baffled him at first. Thor was a demigod, for god's sake. Bruce turned into a green creature whenever he wanted to. Tony wore a suit of armor that could fly, fully equipped with weapons. Clint? A scarily talented marksman. But then again, he had woken up after being frozen in ice in the future, so he guessed he didn't have a right to say what's normal and what's not anymore. Luckily, their identities were able to be kept as a secret and they managed to have an actual life besides from their weird one. No one knew he was Captain America besides from a few trusted people, even during the war he had remained nameless and he was thankful that particular secret hadn't yet gotten out until now. No one knew Tony was Iron Man, Bruce was the Hulk, Clint was Hawkeye, or Thor was - well, Thor. That was how their initiative remained covert.

Steve didn't see it coming, but they had grown on him. Clint with his recklessness. Tony with his brashness. Bruce with his perceptiveness. Thor with his wise words. Missions went by and suddenly they became partners, friends, and permanent fixtures in each other's lives. Steve couldn't envision a life without them anymore. They didn't always go along with each other, their personalities clashing more often than not, but they wouldn't hesitate for a second to trust each other with their backs. Their operations also gave him something to focus on, but sometimes—it wasn't enough.

That was when Tony had approached him with an idea. He was trying to expand his company into the art industry and he said he remembered Steve loved art. Steve had refused because he didn't want to take advantage of his connections like that, and because he didn't feel qualified. Tony had given him a deadpan stare and said: _don't flatter yourself Rogers, I'm not doing this because you're my friend, but because I've seen your paintings and they're good, so accept the damn offer because I'm not going to leave you alone until you do_. So he had. To be honest he enjoyed the job more than he had thought he would. Accepting the job had given him something to anchor himself, and something to do in between missions. Tony himself had seemed pleased with Steve's work, and Stark's industry art department quickly became one of the most famous in the country. As per Steve's request, Tony had kept the branch small, and Pepper had been kind enough to help him with the technical stuffs—giving him pointers at how to manage a department. He was surprisingly good at it. And to be honest, he loved the job.

He and Tony didn't always get along, much like with the others, even with the long history Steve had with Howard (he half suspected that might be the reason). But after a particular hellish mission in Bangkok involving elephants (don't ask), they came to form this tentative friendship.

His phone buzzed again in his pocket and he took it back out to see a text message from Clint and his lips quirked. _Cap srry cant go, mission. Goodluck. Laura said hi—_ he texted back a reply to that, navigating his way to the quiet corner of the room where they hung one of his paintings. He hadn't really expected any of them to come, to be honest. He understood that they were all very busy people, and Bruce had that science conference in Seattle while Thor had to be back at on Asgard for the remainder of the month. He just wished that he had someone he actually knew there, to calm down his nerves.

He paused on his steps when he saw someone was standing in front of his painting.

He knew her. She was one of the ballerinas performing at the ballet theatre next door. He had watched their performance earlier, before the opening ceremony of the Stark exhibition. Their ballet group was up and coming, he also knew. They were in this tour across Europe and US right now, which was why when Pepper had offered him a ticket he had been curious to watch them. The whole buzz was right, they were breathtaking.

She was wearing a dress now, red like her hair that fell slightly above her knees. He watched her, because he liked seeing people's reaction to his painting. Different than other painters, he didn't find the need of talking to the audience of his painting. He would much rather observe them, see the way they pointed at the details they liked and the quiet hushed conversation they had with the person next to them. It was more revealing than the false compliments people usually throw.

"Are you going to talk to me? It's impolite to stare."

She glanced indifferently at him from the corner of her eyes.

"Sorry," he flushed, ashamed at how rude he had been and walked a few steps closer so he was standing right beside her. He gestured pathetically at the painting in front of them. "That—uh, I painted that."

That, at least, got some reaction from her. She looked at him and raised a slender eyebrow. Her eyes were green. "Really?"

He nodded. "Yeah."

"Huh."

He tilted his head. "What's wrong?"

She half-shrugged, turning back to observe his painting. "You're just not who I pictured you to be."

It was his turn to quirk an eyebrow. "Oh, and how exactly did you picture me?"

Her answer was short and to the point. "Old."

He let out a forced chuckle. Not that she had been wrong. The painting in front of them was one of his favorites. Not because it was good, but because it was a painting of Brooklyn from his childhood, drawn straight from his memory. It had also been the hardest painting to finish, for him. "Is that so?"

She hummed, but she wasn't really paying any attention to him. "Perhaps you got an old soul."

"Yeah," he agreed softly, prepared to excuse himself to give her some space. He had the impression that she didn't really want him to be there. "Perhaps."

That was why it surprised him, when she turned to look at him with this coy smirk and all the indifferent demeanour gone from her expression. Her voice was light and friendly, he noticed the slight dimple when she smiled. "So, are you going to buy me a drink?"

He couldn't help but smile back. "How about coffee?"

.

He was charming.

He opened doors for her, slowed his strides so his pace matched hers, asked her about herself, and was genuinely interested as she entertained him with her tightly woven lies. Meanwhile, he told her the basics about himself and mainly explained his paintings—of each historical elements and life he thought he could implement in a picture. And then he apologized if he had bore her. It surprised her, how behind that quiet reserved front he was highly intelligent with just the right amount of dry humor. She was Natalie Rushman, the multi-talented ballerina who spoke Latin and various other languages. Apparently he could too. She ordered black coffee with two sugars and he ordered tea. _A friend of his makes extremely good tea_ , he explained. He was starting to get addicted. She responded to that in German because Natalie Rushman was coy and intriguing. He smiled at her, and replied in Dutch. She raised a challenging eyebrow and put on just the right amount of dare in her voice as she spoke in French. His French was very fluent. She stirred her coffee slowly just to give him an air of relaxed poise. The coffee shop was almost deserted besides from them and a couple of other people. His green tea was served in a red mug she thought was ridiculous.

"I bet, you've never tasted worse coffee than the one I had in Bangladesh," she said in Russian. The accent was heavy on her tongue, but it flowed smoothly, and she had never thought of this before—she missed home.

He blinked and the corner of his lips twitched up. "Alright, you win. I don't know Russian."

She told herself that she was not disappointed because—why would she be? Instead, she leaned back on her chair and gave him one of her most cunning smile. "Who said it was a contest?"

He laughed.

They talked for a little longer than she had anticipated, and by the end of it he offered to walk her to wherever she needed to go. In the end, he walked her back to her dressing room. Once they reached her door, he shuffled awkwardly and broke the silence. "So, I guess this is it."

"Yes."

"Will I be seeing you again?"

The Black Widow didn't do coffee dates. Neither did Natasha Romanoff. Natalie Rushman did, but it usually ended in a bed somewhere with someone she would never see again.

"Probably not," she answered. "I don't expect I'm going to have any business in America for a while."

He didn't hide his disappointment but he smiled at her as he reached into his wallet to take out a small white card. _Steve Rogers_ , it said above a series of phone number and an address for his art studio.

"In case you're ever in town," he told her.

She was sure the card was useless, but she made a show of putting it inside her purse. "Thank you."

She gave him a small wave and watched him walked away because that was what Natalie would do. Natasha was out of the country with a gun strapped on her thigh the first thing in the morning. The Black Widow, they had called her. Assassin. Spy. Pretty much anything you wanted her to be.

.

 **To be continued.**

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 **Author's note:** Should I? Yes? No? I don't know? If yes, the next chapters are supposed to be longer because I have half of this story written already—but we'll see.

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	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** Do not own.

 **Author's note:** Oh my thank you so much for the kind responses, here's a quick update for you amazing people out there:) thanks again!

 _._

 **Chapter 2**

 _._

 **Façade**

 **[a Mr. & Mrs. Smith AU]**

 _._

She almost didn't see the gleam of the blade. _Almost_.

She wasn't the best of her field by being sloppy, so she ducked just in time to avoid it and disarm the guard. He yelped in pain and she swiftly knocked him out, a blow to his temple with the back of the paper weight she had grabbed from the desk behind her. His body hit the ground with a dull thud. The five other guards were already long passed out by then. She was pretty sure a couple of them were paralyzed and maybe one was dead. She surveyed the mess around her with distaste.

It was supposed to be a simple data mining mission. She wasn't supposed to encounter any resistance because the building was supposed to be empty. Yet the Intel was wrong and she hadn't even managed to start the computer before the security guards had barged in. Her handler wouldn't be pleased with this.

Ignoring the voice in her head that kept telling her how stupid she had been to trust a rookie's research—she should have done it herself but apparently according to the new regulations giving an illusion of trust to those rookies had been a damn requirement, she turned the computer on and plugged in the programmed flash drive. She had already told her handler repeatedly that she didn't do _teamwork_. Of course, he had been adamant that continuing the Red Room's legacy was _more important_.

The screen turned blue then black and finally a series of words and numbers darted in a random sequence. _Bingo_. She typed in a few keywords and codes to crumble the firewall and finally copy the data she was looking for. Her comm buzzed. "Black Widow, we have incoming. Forty seconds."

 _Dammit_.

"I'm not done," she hissed angrily, fingers jabbing into the keyboard furiously. The computer let out a beeping sound that was muffled by the sound of footsteps outside the door. Ten people.

Her handler was unfazed. He knew she had gotten out of way worse situations before. "Thirty seconds."

They were already outside the door now. Probably guns. It was nothing she couldn't handle; she was the Black Widow after all. Russian's top assassin, raised by the Red Room, and a well-trained spy. "Do I engage?"

"No," came the reply. "Get out of there."

Her lips curled in dismay. It was always easier to engage than escape. But if he didn't want her to engage with the risk of getting caught, that meant whatever information she was retrieving was sensitive and they didn't want to lose it. She was used to operating with no questions asked. The door rattled as someone tried to break in through the door she had locked. Angry fists pounding.

 _Eighty percent_.

The door shook some more.

 _Ninety_.

The door was nearly knocked down.

 _Ninety-five_.

She checked her watch. Three a.m. Enough time to get an hour sleep before training tomorrow.

 _One hundred_.

She snatched the flash drive, put it into her waist bag, and calmly walked to the open window. She was on the eighteenth floor. The dark murky water below rippled. She sighed. She had hoped it wouldn't have to come to this. They came barging in, with guns raised and noisy shouts and empty words.

She took a dive.

.

"Do you understand me?"

She did. That didn't mean she was going to acknowledge it. Apparently she was hitting a streak of bad luck. She had climbed out of a river earlier today after a mission with a bad Intel; this wasn't exactly a pleasant addition to her morning. She could barely keep her irritation down. However she refrained herself from snapping back—much. Her newest handler—always _handler_ , never a name, was never fond of her and she wasn't exactly ecstatic to work with him either. The choice was never hers to make, though. If it was, the man in front of her would have been missing in a suspicious car accident for months already. She tried to keep her voice calm. "Is this because of the slight glitch on the mission this morning? Because it was not my fault. I told you the rookies shouldn't have been granted that much privilege in fieldwork when they're not ready."

The burly man in front of her tapped his fingers, his patience wearing thin. "This has nothing to do with that, Black Widow."

"Then why _the hell_ are you stationing me in America?"

The Red Room was Russia's top espionage agency, had been since the Cold War, working on the darker shades of law that others couldn't touch. They were the government's, but not really. They were something else entirely. They had recruited her when she was at a very young age off the dingy streets with nothing else to lose, and she hadn't known anything else but this life. She had been taught how to lie and kill and use anything to achieve the Red Room's end, and she excelled at it. Was the best at it. And one slip that wasn't her fault shouldn't have thrown her into a pit she didn't belong.

She had heard rumors about this—about the Red Room attempting to plant something more effective than a mole or two in America. So far they had been setting up their female spies with covers as a ballet group for ease of access around the world, and she had been fine with that, given she would always end up back at home in Russia at the end of the day. This was nothing like that. This screamed permanence.

"We've worked out your papers; your plane will depart at seven tomorrow morning."

"Why can't you send other agents?"

She watched in disgust as he ran his fingers through his greasy hair, leaning back in his chair with arrogance. "I've spoken with the higher officials and they agreed that you're the most fitting for this position," a tilt of his lips. Lies. He just wanted to get rid of her. "You will still retain your Natalie Rushman cover and will still tour with the others at times, but we need an active agent to reside in America. Nothing much changes but the fact you're going to live there. You will still do your missions as usual." She was about to protest when he continued. "Silly me for thinking you're qualified for this job. After all, you're the best—aren't you, Black Widow?" Now he was just mocking her.

What she wouldn't give to wipe that smug grin off his face.

Resistance was helpless at this point, not when he had taken this matter to the higher-ups without running it by her first. She knew that, and he knew that too. He was still a superior and she couldn't lay a finger on him. She smiled back, thinly, a spread of her lips – and watched with barely concealed satisfaction as he swallowed nervously, traces of smugness fading slightly. "I understand."

She was going to America, then.

.

She arrived at JFK with nothing but a luggage and resentment from having to sit next to a man with a bad body odor during the entire flight. She didn't have a lot of stuffs, no traces of sentiment but mere practicality, so she hadn't needed to spend more than an hour to pack up. Everything in her bag right now belonged to Natalie Rushman (Natasha only had weapons she couldn't pack up and clothes she threw away), she hadn't used that persona for a while now, what with the end of the tour two months ago (and an additional thirteen dead bodies in the process) and dozens of missions her handler had suddenly thrown at her.

She took a taxi to the address she had received during her briefing, an apartment they had stuffed with the necessities she couldn't carry through normal airport customs. Not that she necessarily needed actual weapons for her to have weapons. It was an hour ride from the airport when the taxi dropped her off in front of one of the apartment buildings in a supposedly 'up and coming neighborhood', at least, according to the taxi driver.

The apartment was already furnished, but it was barren, and it suddenly occurred to her that this was the first time she had a place for herself. She had mostly lived in bases and academies when she wasn't being sent to hellholes halfway around the world, so this was definitely something new.

There was a single couch in the minimalist apartment, and she walked around to find weapons, cash, and fake ids hidden behind the closet after a flick of a switch and a bunch of standard security procedures, much like in other Red Room's safe houses. There was nothing interesting besides that.

She decided to unpack, just to find something to do. Sitting around idly by had never been something she enjoyed, except when it was a means to an end or when there was a target on the other end of her rifle. Her ballet stuffs were there, and a few other clothes that reminded her she needed to go shopping. She mentally added that to her to-do list, right after doing a quick recon of her neighbors.

Her fingers brushed against a smooth surface and she looked down to see her purse. Natalie's purse. An admirer had given it to her when she was touring in Europe, a young girl with bright eyes and big dreams Natasha thought was stupid. She honestly didn't know why she kept using it. She opened the latch to find it mostly empty, nothing but European money and a few cards.

That was when she saw it.

.

This was stupid.

She didn't know why she came here. Except that her instructions had told her she had to cement her American identity. Blend in, they had said. They needed a mole planted there—they needed _her_ there. So there you go, they got her every necessary paper she could possibly need and told her with a flick of a hand to create an actual persona. That meant she had to make connections and get people to vouch for her, if anything came down to it. She needed people she could use for her advantage. She would need to lay low and create an actual life for cover.

That still hadn't explained what she was doing here.

The wooden stairs creaked under her slight weight. The building was old, but well taken care off. She could smell the fresh coat of paint covering the white walls. She climbed the stairs until she got to the third floor where a green door and muffled voices greeted her. She guessed coming here was an impulse. She needed something practical, and this seemed more convenient than creating completely new strings she could pull. It still seemed ridiculous though, how her brain instantly flitted to him when she saw his card. However, before she could internally debate some more whether she should do this or not, the door slammed open on her face and she was greeted by the sight of a man with a goatee. She would be lying if she said she didn't know who he was.

She gave the man—who stopped in his steps when he saw her and was still standing on the doorway (full-on checking her out), a hint of a (fake) smile. "Is Steve here?"

He blinked. "I'm sorry?"

"Is Steve Rogers here?" She repeated, rolling her eyes on the inside. Rumor was the guy was a genius. At least the playboy part was true.

"No, yeah—I know who you meant," he crinkled his nose at her in annoyance. He turned his head slightly before screaming on top of his lungs, still looking out of place in his pressed business suit. "Rogers, there's a hot girl looking for you!"

Tony Stark. Huh. This may be way more convenient than she thought. Tony Stark was a powerful man in America. One of the most powerful people in the world, really. Rogers didn't cross her as the type of person to hang around people like Stark. She knew he was working for him, yes. But hanging out was a whole different thing. But that could be useful to her, if everything worked out.

"I don't think the deaf lady on the first floor heard you, Tony," another voice said drily. And then Steve appeared, much like how she remembered him from that day. He was in a white shirt and a worn out jeans that was splattered with paint. He cut his hair, she observed. He looked younger this way. His eyes widened when he looked at her. He probably had thought he wouldn't see her again. She could tell him he hadn't been wrong. "Natalie? What are you doing here?" But then he quickly backtracked, awkwardly shuffling himself to the door. "Not that I'm not glad to see you or anything. I just thought—."

"Smooth," Stark said behind of a bad impersonation of a fake cough.

She ignored the billionaire, twisting her lips into a coy smile and gave the blond man a friendly expression. "Well, you said—if I'm ever in town. Sorry, I should have called but I was around the neighbourhood and I thought I should drop by. Is this a bad time?"

He grinned. "No, it's not a bad time. And yes, I said that. Would you like to come in?"

"Well," Stark drawled before she could get her reply out. "Surely you don't plan to entertain her in your messy studio slash apartment? I can easily make you guys an appointment at a good restaurant right now. Where are your manners, Rogers? She came a long way."

"Actually," she said again before Stark could say anything more. Natalie hated formal dinners—she excelled at them, but she hated them. That was her cover anyway. "I saw a diner down the street that I would like to try. Do you mind having lunch with me?"

"Rosetta's? No, I'd love to," then he glanced down and seemingly noticed his clothing state because his grin turned sheepish. "Just—uh, let me change?"

She nodded and stepped past Stark into the room when Steve motioned her to. "Okay."

"Well, that's my cue. Have fun, you two," Stark said with a wave of hand as he began walking towards the stairs across the narrow hallway. "And don't forget about what I said earlier, Steve."

Steve sighed, mostly out of fond exasperation with slight annoyance. "I won't, Tony."

They watched until Stark walked down the stairs, whistling as he went. Steve turned to her, smiling. "I'll be right back. Feel free to look around if you want."

She nodded again, half pretending to observe the different paintings hung across the room while watching him disappear from the corner of her eyes. The other half of her had to admit that he had talent. The studio was a small but well-lit room with a door on the left that she guessed must be where he lived. There was a work station near the window with a half-finished painting propped up near the wall.

She heard rather than saw him coming back into the room.

"You really like history, huh?" Most of the paintings she saw were illustrations of a once upon a time, a period that hadn't been touched by time.

He shrugged at that. "Maybe a bit. It's—" he paused, seemingly searching for words. "It's interesting to see how things have changed." She had a feeling that wasn't what he originally wanted to say.

"So," she clapped her hands together in front of him, giving him a supposedly bright smile. "Shall we go?"

.

They walked in a comfortable silence until they reached the end of the street, and she hadn't expected that. Most people would just fumble with their words around her, not noticing how in love they were with their own voice. Steve was different, though. And maybe that was the original reason why their first meeting had struck an impression to her. He was different, and she couldn't necessarily explain it.

He was a regular at the diner, given how the waitress had greeted him friendlily with a question of whether or not he wanted his usual order. He had nodded thanks at that and entertained Lily (the waitress' name, she learned) with a few questions about her day. They sat down at the corner booth after that and she ordered coffee with a side of grilled cheese Steve said was good.

He smiled again—she was starting to see how easy it was for him to do that, "How have you been?"

She leaned forward slightly, tilting her head. "Oh you know, with the tour ending I don't really have much to do. What about you? I heard your art department is doing well lately."

He shrugged. "Yeah, it's… It has been doing okay, I guess."

"A little bit? Every art society in Europe wants to be represented by you."

He bowed his head slightly in embarrassment at her words, laughing. "I have a great team and the name Stark speaks for itself. I don't really do much."

She waved her hand to dismiss his statement. "You really should credit yourself some more, I'm sure that's not the case at all."

He grinned. "Speak for yourself; I heard your ballet group won an award."

Ah, yes. That. Boring formalities and what-not. It really hadn't been that hard. They had been trained as spies and murderers—they would have been damned if they couldn't do something as simple as that. She faked a proud smile nonetheless. "My girls, they train so hard. I miss them already."

The food came and she added a bit of sugar into her coffee. The grilled cheese did taste good. "So, how long are you in New York for?" He asked her as he dug in into a pile of waffles.

She averted her gaze, pretending to be unsure of how to respond to that question. It worked because it caught his attention and he frowned. "What's wrong?"

She sighed quietly. "I may have lied to you a bit."

He furrowed his brows. "About what?"

"I sort of live in New York now, I just got here a few days ago," she explained. "I decided a change of scenery might be good and here I am." She gestured at herself as she talked. "And I kind of don't know anybody here yet, and I remembered you, so…" She trailed off, watching his reaction.

She didn't expect his grin to widen. "So I'm your designated tour guide."

She rolled her eyes. "If that's what you want to call yourself, it's up to you. But yes," an upward curl of her lips. "I was hoping you to be."

"You're going to regret it, Rushman," he laughed. "I have so many fun-facts about this city."

"You're such a dork," she told him, shaking her head. "I'm regretting it already."

He pretended to be offended at that. "Really, Rushman? Here I was kindly thinking about taking you to all the fun secret places here in New York, but you're already changing my mind. Maybe I'll take you to the Statue of Liberty instead. You'll see how exciting it is then."

She nudged his foot with hers under the table. Smiled. "Don't you dare, Rogers."

They stayed and talked until it was late, the sun sinking and the darkness slinking in.

.

 **To be continued.**

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 **Author's note:** Um, what do you think? I would love to hear your opinions:)

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	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** Do not own.

 **Author's note** : Thank you so much for any of you who's reading this. I would really love your feedback on this, tell me what you think?:)

 _._

 **Chapter 3**

 _._

 **Façade**

 **[a Mr. & Mrs. Smith AU]**

.

"So I heard Cap's got a girl now."

"It's really not the right time for it, Clint."

"What do I know; I'm not being shot at right now."

" _You're_ not, but _we_ are."

Both of them were.

Clint snorted, uncaring despite of the explosion his arrow had just caused. "The bullets seem to like you better."

Steve had deflected nine with his shield already. Clint barely had to duck. Despite being utterly drowned with back luck most of the time, the strangest thing with Clint was how he was always lucky in the field. Sure he had experienced his share of injuries and some of them had been nearly fatal, but he always came through and recovered splendidly. Right before falling off hospital's stairs after that.

Laura was a very patient woman.

Steve rolled his eyes and crouched down next to the archer. He wasn't sure how long their make-shift barricade would last. He could risk it and attack, but the last time he had done so he had received a strong reaction from the rest of the team—something along the lines of _'Captain, that was reckless'_ , _'What the hell were you thinking?'_ , _'Do you have a death wish? Because I can help you with that given how annoyed I am at you right now – much more practical than barging in through the enemy line without help, right?'_ and ' _Did you want to make Pepper cry, Rogers?'_.

He had been used to laying down his life on the line, taking risks that were both necessary and weren't – because he had been fighting in the war and that sort of fell into the job description. This team didn't see it that way, not unless it was last resort and there was absolutely nothing else they could do.

"What was it about Cap's girl?"

Steve groaned into the comm. "Tony, not now. Tell me the professor is safe with you."

Steve hadn't figured out what this terrorist organization in Finland would want to do with an astrophysicist, but the number of guards spoke of something highly crucial. As far as Steve knew, Dr. Erik Selvig was a friend of Thor's – and if that had been the reason for his abduction, then that meant their identities were at risk. Despite the man being a brilliant scientist, SHIELD saw no other possible cause the terrorist group would want to get their hands on him. Selvig's research lately hadn't been anything of importance, they had said.

Thor himself hadn't yet come back despite of having been gone for almost a year. He had said it was a family matter of some kind involving his brother, but at times Steve really wished they have more air support. He could try offering a position to Sam again, but he didn't want to be rude given the circumstances around why the other man had left the field.

"No need to get your—ah, what's the saying? _Knickers in a twist_? You know I always get things done," Tony replied, followed with something that sounded suspiciously like a yelp and a curse.

"Tony, what was that?" Bruce asked sharply, safe in the presence of the quinjet with the medical equipment, monitoring the rest of them in the process. "Clint, I think there's a tank coming your way. You and Steve need to move."

"Easier said than done," Clint muttered, glancing over his shoulder before letting go another exploding arrow. They couldn't see that well because it was dark and the trees towered up to the sky above, but they knew they were way outnumbered. Steve threw his shield and heard rather than saw when it hit his target, five armed thugs on their north. He caught it with ease and crouched back down before a stray bullet could hit him.

"I'm going to be late," Clint protested loudly. "Stark, hurry up. Laura is going to kill me."

"Considering she has been married to you for years and has yet done that, I really doubt she's going to do it over mash potatoes," Tony said with a grunt from his position inside the warehouse. "What time is it in America again?"

"I really hate to break it to you guys, but I'd really love to have this conversation when we're not – I don't know, about to be blown up by a tank or two?" Steve bit out at them. He loved his team. But _sometimes_ there was always this point where he wanted to strangle some sense into their heads.

"I thought having a girlfriend would loosen you up somehow," Tony retorted.

"She's not my _girlfriend_."

"Whatever you say, Spangles," there was the sound of repulsor over the comm. "I found Dr. Selvig. I'm getting him out of here."

"About time," Bruce wearily sighed. "I'll start the jet. The rest of you, we have twenty seconds before the tank got to you."

"Well, man with a plan," Clint turned to him, face streaked with dirt. "What are we going to do now?"

Steve stared at the other man and ignored the sounds of blazing guns and the approaching tank in the background. "Ever navigate a tank?"

Clint grinned gleefully. "How hard can it be?"

.

" _Hijacking a tank_ , seriously?" Tony whined. "You have to do that when I couldn't join you? That's _fucking_ unfair."

Clint was still looking pleased as he switched the quinjet into autopilot and turned his seat around to face them. "We knew you would ruin the fun, that's why." He paused and crinkled his nose proudly. It was obvious that he knew he was pushing Tony's buttons and he loved it. "And it was loads of fun."

Tony scowled and pointed at Clint. "Let's see how fun it is when there's no more new arrows for you."

Clint held his hands up in a defensive gesture but there was nothing sincere about that. "Alright, I'm sorry. Next time we'll make sure we'll get blown up first before saving ourselves in a rad way just so you can join us in the fun."

Tony squinted at him. "You better."

Steve finished bandaging a gash on his arm where a bullet had grazed him, mentally cataloguing the others' injuries. Tony was a little bruised here and there from where his armour had dented, Clint had a few scrapes, while Dr. Selvig was passed out at the back of the quinjet but was relatively unharmed – Bruce had done a basic check up on him. Steve himself only had the bullet graze and a few bruises on his torso. He considered the mission as a relative success.

It still bothered him though, how Dr. Selvig himself had admitted that he didn't know what the terrorist wanted to do with him either just before he lost consciousness. The fact that it had nothing to do with their identities was barely a consolation and it still nagged at the back of Steve's mind.

He stood up from where he had been sitting down to stash the first aid kit back to its drawer and the movement drew Tony's attention. He instantly regretted moving when the billionaire grinned wolfishly. "Right – what was it with Spangles' girl?"

Clint was more than happy to join in. "Apparently he's seeing someone now, do you know that? Because I had to find out from SHIELD's gossip column and I'm hurt."

Steve sighed. "I am not seeing anyone; can we please let this go?"

Even when he knew it was hopeless to ask nicely, there was no harm in trying.

"You introduced her to Pepper already," Tony accused. "Why not introduce your girlfriend to us?"

Steve opened the drawer containing the other medical equipment and stored the first aid kit with the others. "For the last time, she's not my girlfriend. And you met her already."

Clint snickered. "Perhaps he's afraid you'll scare her off."

Tony shot Clint an offended look. "I can be nice!" He stared at Steve. "Tell birdie that's not the reason! Also, those five seconds don't count. _I don't even know her name_."

Bruce, who was closing his eyes in the seat next to Tony – he had just gotten back from India when they were shipped off, didn't even bother to open them back when he chimed in. "I don't know which bothers me the most. Is it the fact that SHIELD has a gossip column or how the both of you have no decency at all to give Steve some privacy?"

Steve was about to thank Bruce for being the rational one in the group, plopping himself back into an empty seat when the other man cracked open an eye with a hint of a smile on his lips. "Besides, it's going to be sooner or later before he introduces her to us anyway."

 _So much for that thought_.

.

He got home to his apartment smelling like butter and cinnamon.

He froze by the doorway separating his apartment and the gallery, hesitating for a second. Not that it was something unusual, he did give her his spare key after all. He was just surprised because he thought she was still out of the country for the rest of this week. He quickly glanced at his bandaged upper arm – it was hidden underneath his jacket, but he probably should change into a long-sleeves shirt first before he approached her.

"Natalie?" He called out, closing the door behind him. He was rewarded by an answer from the direction of his kitchen. He navigated his way around his small living space – a cheap couch he got at a flea market that Tony always frowned at, a creaky coffee table, a tv, stacks of books scattered on the floor, and a sketching table near the hallway to his bedroom. It was a bit pathetic, but he really saw no point of buying expensive stuffs when he barely spent his time home anyway. He had told Natalie this the first time he invited her for dinner at his place, a bit embarrassed, but she had surprised him when she told him that she thought it was comfortable.

Steve hastily hung his jacket inside its closet before walking to his bedroom. He liked things organized, but organized did not necessarily meant tidy. It was more of him knowing where things were and having easy access whenever he needed them. His bedroom was the only place in his apartment he truly put a bit more effort in, and that was only because Laura had insisted on helping him pick the mattress. He really didn't see the need for fussing over one – he had been used to worse conditions, after all - but Laura had said it was the least he could do after buying the ratty couch without telling her, and Clint had given him a look from the corner of his eyes telling him to just go along, and he had relented.

He changed to a t-shirt and a long-sleeved plaid, stuffing his dirty clothes inside his laundry basket. He hadn't realized how exhausted he was until now. When they had gotten back to SHIELD's base, they had been stuck in an extra-long briefing and got assigned tons of paper-works. Besides that, he hadn't gotten much sleep for the past five days. He had been busy arranging the Stark's gala for this Saturday because Pepper had asked for his help on the decorations. He didn't know how she managed to run the company with such ease.

He found Natalie to be busy plating cinnamon rolls on one of his finer plates, smiling at him when he sat down in front of her. Her red hair was tied into a messy bun and she was wearing a blouse and a pair of jeans. "When did you get back?" he asked her, snatching an apple from the pile of fruits he had on the middle of the table. "I thought you're still in Russia."

"I finished my business sooner than I thought," she replied, also sitting down herself. She pushed the plate of cinnamon rolls to him. "Here, try some."

It had been more or less nine months since Natalie had moved to New York.

He hadn't thought he would ever see her again after that time they had coffee after his first Stark exhibition. He had thought she would just be one of those people passing by in his life. Don't get him wrong, of course she had left an impression on him during their first meeting – she was an amazing person, she spoke multiple languages, and she was also really smart. She had started conversations on topics he hadn't even thought about and she seemed like she enjoyed herself when he was embarrassing himself by being overly excited when he talked about paintings he loved. But that had been that, since she had lived on the other side of the world and to be honest – he hadn't expected anything else.

So it had shocked him to find her standing next to Tony months ago, but then she had told him that she had just moved to New York and that she didn't really know anyone else - and he had been more than happy to help her adjust to life here.

After that he had learned that Natalie had a weird sense of humor, extreme fondness of good movies, and a tendency to sing along to songs she recognized, and they had immediately fallen into this easy friendship he hadn't seen coming. She would just hang around his studio while he was painting, usually with a good book or a Netflix series on her laptop that she wanted to finish, or they would go out for coffee at the little coffee shop two blocks away whenever he decided he needed a break. He would take her to go sight-seeing around town during random hours of random days of the week on his motorcycle and she would teach him Russian and laugh at his horrible pronunciation. He would pick her up after she finished teaching her ballet class (she had started this about a couple months ago out of boredom) and they would go out for dinner or sometimes they would go to her place instead and order take-outs.

It was easy to be around her – and that was the word, wasn't it? _Easy_. He didn't have many friends outside of SHIELD or his Stark job, at least, none he was really close to – but being around Natalie was effortless and he could always forget himself a little bit, whenever he was with her. He was glad she decided to stick around – it was refreshing, and she gave him the resemblance of normalcy he had never really had in his life before.

He put the apple back down and grabbed one of the cinnamon rolls instead. She had started to have this weird obsession with cooking a few weeks ago, and since then she had kept shoving food at him. He took a bite as she watched him and he resisted the urge to cringe, because – he was pretty sure the cinnamon roll wasn't intended to be salty. If it was, he was still sure it wasn't supposed to be _that_ salty. "It's good," he told her, taking another bite.

She frowned. "You're not a good liar, you know that?"

Better than he thought he was, at least. Better than he thought he could ever be. Probably better than she thought he was. This bothered him and he tried to wipe the unwelcoming thoughts out of his mind, giving her an encouraging smile. "Might want to cut back on whatever is making it salty."

She sighed, shoulders dropping a bit as she leaned back on the chair. "Great, I just spent the last four hours for nothing."

"That long? I'm pretty sure it's supposed to be two hours max."

She glared at him and lifted her chin up. "Don't start, Rogers."

He chuckled and grinned at her. "How was your trip?"

"Nothing special. It was just a standard errand," She folded her arms on the table, tilting her head. "Where were you earlier today? And yesterday, actually. I called you last night."

He hadn't checked his phone. "I'm sorry," he said. "I got swamped at the office. You know how it is – especially since there's that gala this weekend." Thank god it was nothing unusual for him to spend days at the office or only coming home to shower and grab a toast before going back.

"Right," she said. "How's Pepper?"

He had introduced her to Pepper because he noticed that besides from him and a few other people, she didn't really have anyone to hang out with here in New York, and the two women had gone out for shopping a couple of times. "She's good. She wanted me to tell you that after this entire _Stark ego_ —her words, is over, she's looking forward to schedule another shopping session with you."

She nodded. "Of course, I'd love to."

She grabbed a magazine from a small shelf he kept in the dining room and started to flip through the pages and he finished his cinnamon roll before taking another one, which she didn't miss because she gave him a tilt of her lips before she continued reading. They did this often, just sit in comfortable silence without feeling the need to fill the air with words. He hadn't realized how starving he was before, and the food was pleasant in his stomach despite of the slightly unusual taste on his tongue.

"Hey," he said to her. "Are you in the mood for movies? I heard there's one premiering tonight and it's supposed to be good. Wanna go?"

She shrugged. "Not really. Rain check? I just want to do something with not much effort for the rest of today," she gave the plate of cinnamon rolls in front of her a slightly disdainful look. "I just wasted my energy for nothing, after all."

He rolled his eyes. "I told you it's not that bad, no need to be dramatic."

"Who's talking, you're the drama queen."

"Stop calling me that."

She smirked, eyes glinting with mirth. "Ever listen to yourself whenever you're talking about art? When you stop comparing every color to rainbows or the shades of rain, I'll stop calling you that."

"I don't do that," he frowned. At least, not to his knowledge. "And that doesn't even make sense."

"That's how it feels whenever I listen to you," she returned, though they both knew she would listen to him seriously whenever he talked about art anyway. Then she proceeded to give an attempt at mimicking his voice. "The color of grass and what-not."

He held a hand on his heart in a mock-wounded gestured. "I'm hurt," she laughed lightly at that. "What if you pick a movie on pay-per-view and I'll make some popcorn?"

"Since you're doing all the heavy works, I can't say no to that, can I?"

"Definitely not."

He made popcorn with extra butter and she chose to watch _Catch Me If You Can_ for who knows how many times. He didn't bother to ask her why, her reply would always be a quirked eyebrow and a _'Young Leornado Dicaprio, now shut up.'_ – He lifted her legs from where they were stretched out on the small couch, sat down, and put them over his lap. She smoothly snatched the bowl of popcorn from his fingers and he shook his head in exasperation.

The movie started, and a sudden thought crossed his mind. He glanced at her from the corner of his eyes, mulling over the thought and hesitating. Should he?

"What?" She asked him, turning her head slightly without moving her eyes from the screen where there was a sequence of Dicaprio sitting in a jail somewhere.

"Who said there's something?"

She shrugged again. He knew that she had this perceptiveness in her that he couldn't fathom sometimes. But she never prodded. "Just a feeling."

He hesitated for another second before finally making up his mind. "Natalie, do you—," he paused when she looked at him, brows quirked. "Do you have plans for this Saturday?"

"This Saturday?"

"Yeah," he said softly. "Do you want to – I don't know. I mean, these Stark galas get boring sometimes and I was just wondering if –," he ran his fingers through his hair in a nervous habit he never quite gotten rid of. He was really bad at this. She was patient as she waited for him to blurt the rest of his sentences out. "Do you want to go with me to the gala?"

He didn't realize how anxious he had been until she smiled at him. "Sure. I'd be honored to be your saviour."

He laughed. "My hero."

It was just between friends, he told himself. Nothing more. Then they watched the rest of the movie with him alternating between dozing off here and there and her poking him awake, annoyed.

.

The week passed by just like that and before he knew it, Saturday was already there. He had spent the entire week fussing over ice statues and paintings and flowers and frankly he was ready for everything to be done already. Once a year for this gala was simply too much. Tony should do it once for every decade instead.

He tugged on his bow tie nervously and told himself that he was ridiculous and that there was absolutely no reason for him to be so. But somehow the door in front of him looked intimidating, never mind he had been there for countless times before.

He scolded himself internally – he had fought Hydra for god's sake, had fought in the war, had risked his life for who knows how many times. Yet he still couldn't help but feel like this was one of those things he would never ever be prepared enough for.

He was just finally about to knock when the door flung open and she was there, with her red hair framing her face in tiny curls and a grey dress that nearly swept the floor. She looked absolutely stunning. "You've been standing there for five minutes," she deadpanned.

His cheeks flushed. He had forgotten about the security camera she installed. He shifted his weight a bit and cleared his throat, grinning sheepishly. "You look beautiful."

She was, and she was also probably used to being told that by now, but she rewarded him with a smile nonetheless. Red lips and white teeth and just the usual amount of coyness. "You don't look so bad either. Shall we?"

They arrived at the gala just a bit late because of the traffic, and when they got into the hall it was already crowded with people. He was admittedly a little proud of himself because the decoration did look good, and Natalie praised him for it. He thanked her before he spotted a group he recognized. "There are some people I want you to meet," he told her, and they walked to the far side of the hall, where Tony, Clint, and Bruce were huddled behind a couple of pillars.

He started to regret his decision the second Tony's face lit up like a kid waking up on a Christmas morning when he spotted them approaching, but he steeled his nerves and shot the other man a warning look instead. Bruce just elbowed Tony on his behalf anyway. Clint was looking at them with a look Steve couldn't read. But that was Clint's expression for most of the time, so he didn't think much about it.

"Well, look who's here," Tony said when they got close enough; grinning so wide Steve was worried it might rip his face in half. "Steve Rogers and…"

"Natalie Rushman," she offered before Steve could introduce her. The smile on her face was charming and different from the teasing ones she usually gave him. Given how laid-back and down to earth she usually was with him, he had forgotten that this was always more her scene than his. She held herself with this poise and grace Steve couldn't help but admire, and he felt out of place standing next to her. "And you must be Mr. Stark."

He wasn't the only one who was impressed because Tony gave her _this_ look – "Tony, please," the billionaire said, the grin still plastered on his face.

"Then call me Natalie," she replied, and turned to Bruce. Still smiling. "You must be Dr. Banner, Steve told me a lot about you. Not to mention the research you did on genetic mutation a few years ago is one of a kind."

Bruce perked up at that, curious and excited at the same time. "I – ah, you read my research?"

She shook her head. "I'm afraid my science knowledge is limited to the high school level, but I do keep up with news, and your work has been amazing."

Bruce smiled hesitantly, a rare one that usually they couldn't wrestle out of him on bad days. Steve couldn't help but feel proud that Natalie could. "Thank you."

"This is Clint," Steve said, gesturing at Clint who stood next to Tony. "He's the one who – "

"Got chased by a dog for three blocks," she filled in. He was surprised that she remembered. He had only mentioned it once offhandedly and it had been a long time ago. "Don't worry though; I totally remember you as the guy who can do cartwheels."

Clint smiled back, but it was a bit strained. "Nice."

Bruce checked his watch before looking up at them. "I should go; I still have that _thing_ I need to finish."

Fury's paperworks. Tony grimaced and waved a hand. "Yeah, have fun with that."

Bruce rolled his eyes, excusing himself from the rest of them.

"I'll be right back too," Natalie leaned in to kiss Steve's cheek. "I think I saw someone I know before. I teach her daughter in class."

He tilted his head and gave her a smile. "Okay."

"Damn, Rogers, she is a looker. And she's totally into you, by the way."

He turned to raise an eyebrow at Tony whose gaze was following Natalie as she walked away from them. Of course she was, one has to be blind—no, dead—to not notice how beautiful she was. Still, there was something in him that didn't appreciate Stark's tone of voice. And about the other thing –

Clint, however, (thankfully) didn't share the same interest with Tony and interrupted him before he had to continue his train of thoughts. "Where did you meet her again?"

"That art convention in New York a few months ago."

"Right," there was something in Clint's response that seemed distraught. "And she's a dancer?"

"Yes," he answered. "A ballerina."

"Damn," Tony said again. Steve ignored him this time.

"Huh," Clint grunted, not bothering to hide how it disturbed him.

"What's wrong?" Steve couldn't help but ask, frowning.

"Nothing," the archer gave a vague attempt at a disarming smile at Steve, probably to ease him off more than anything else. "She reminded me of someone, that's all."

"Probably herself," Tony chimed in, swiping his fingers on his phone screen. "Apparently she is pretty famous."

Steve glared at Tony, he couldn't believe – well actually he could. "Don't _google_ her!"

Tony cackled loudly and Steve almost missed it when Clint murmured an agreement quietly under his breath. But he didn't, and that had been it.

.

"What about her?" He asked Natalie who was leaning on the wall next to him, a drink in her hand. "The brunette in the white dress near the refreshment stand."

"She's going to go home to find her husband cheating with a random woman, but it's fine because she's the one with all the money and she's going to kick him out that exact second, buy a house in Paris, and wear a fedora hat," she told him without preamble and he burst out laughing.

"How do you make up those back stories so quickly?" She had suggested this game where they picked out someone from the crowd and make up stories for them. He had been hesitant at first because it was equal to talking about someone behind their backs, but she kept coming up with _these_ stories and he was hooked. His favorite one was the one with a lemur, a guy with a soul patch mustache, and a bowl of spaghetti.

"I've met a lot of people," she said easily. "You'll be surprised at the tales I've heard."

He knew that, she had said that during her tour she met so many people around the world that by the end they were just blurred faces. Just then, the song changed into a slow one and she said again with the quirk of her brow that she always did, "Since I've saved you from the boredom, the least you can do is probably offer me a dance."

His smile faltered slightly. Even now, years after the ice, the reminder of a dance that never got to be was still sharp and bitter for him. "I don't know how," he admitted softly.

There was something about her right now, an understanding in her eyes and none at all the sharp edges that she sometimes had, and he couldn't look away. "Would you like to learn?"

"I'd probably just step all over your shoes or something," he murmured in reply.

"I'm a good dancer, if I may say so myself," she quipped, and he grinned a little at that. "Might be good enough for the both of us."

"Yeah?"

"What?" She winked, and the playfulness in her returned, the softness hidden back somewhere he didn't know. "You doubt my abilities?"

"I'd probably be dead before I could do so," he said, and she held out her palm to him.

"Do you trust me?" She asked, smiling.

He did.

Her hand was cool and small in his. Maybe it was okay to start trying to move on.

.

 **To be continued.**

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	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer:** Do not own.

 **Author's note** : This one is merely a compilation of snippets of some sort. Plot (I know, since when do I write plots?) thickens in the next chapter. Thank you so much for reading! Penny for your thoughts?:)

.

 **Chapter 4**

 _._

 **Façade**

 **[a Mr. & Mrs. Smith AU]**

.

She wasn't oblivious and he wasn't subtle.

She noticed the lingering looks and the flustered laughter. The hesitation and the soft words. The way his face lit up when he saw her.

Her instinct had been right. He was a convenient target. It hadn't taken her long to peg his type, that in order to be close to him she had to be a certain amount of friendly, challenging, and mysterious at the same time. That he wouldn't settle on something boring. That he would be drawn to stubbornness, fire, and warmth. No matter whether he realized it or not.

It was convenient, because that was exactly who Natalie was. He was a perfect match for her cover persona, so she decided to stick around. Apparently, he had been also more than happy to let her. He had introduced her to his circle of friends – which, until now, still left her impressed by who he associated himself with. Despite of his high maintenance job, she hadn't expected him to be around such influential people like Stark, Potts, or even Banner.

He traveled around a lot for his work, or he would spent days cramped up in his office, so maintaining her charade was sort of effortless because she was also gone as much as he was. He never demanded anything from her – she wasn't expecting that, because she never had an actual friend to begin with and she had never been undercover for this long before. Usually, it was slipping in and slipping out for her. Slit their throats and go or seduce then kill. But she had always known enough to pave her way through anything, and learning how to fake being a friend was terribly easy. It also helped that he was friendly and trusting –

And she thought: _no one should be that naïve_.

Her life in New York was the closest to an independent life she ever had. Sure, they still sent her to missions and all that, but _something_ changed – she couldn't deny it anymore. She knew they were focusing on young recruits now. At first she had despised it, loathed being away from home, being casted sideways by the Red Room like she wasn't important.

But then she started to have these things she couldn't do before: decorating her own apartment, spending hours invested in books and movies, taking the time to stroll around the city whenever she wanted to. She had started to figure out what Natalie liked, and what she didn't. Natalie would prefer autumn breeze to the glare of summer sun, purple over yellow, and she disliked animals in general. It was like writing her own tale, spinning words into an empty paper. It was exhilarating.

Steve would take her to visit museums, or art galleries, and they would stand in front paintings or exhibitions and make up stories about them. He would bring her frozen yoghurts after she finished teaching her ballet classes (she thought it could be a good foundation and an addition to the list of alibis she could give on days she had to disappear) – and she would always eat her portion never mind that she absolutely hated frozen yoghurts because Natalie didn't.

Sometimes she wondered if she couldn't get herself under wraps enough or if he was just as good as reading people, because he would get this look on his face before he would come up with ideas that Natalie liked. Such as seeing a street performance or hunting antique stuffs at a shop downtown. She didn't mind. Maybe he could read Natalie, but as long as Natasha was still hidden, it was no problem for her.

There was something about him that intrigued her, though. It was something she couldn't put her fingers on, something she couldn't place, and something hidden beneath his smile and the lightness of his words. A slump of his shoulders that was gone the instant she walked into the room and a distant look whenever he was left with his thoughts for a long period of time.

Maybe that was why when he leaned in, with a question in his blue eyes and a hand tender on her cheek, she let him kissed her. And she kissed him back.

.

Their first date was nothing she expected and everything Natalie would love.

He took her to see a show on Broadway, then to a dinner at a small burger joint with surprisingly good food. When it was almost midnight they took a walk in Central Park and danced to no music, him still clumsy and grinning sheepishly despite of the practice he had had with her. He made Natalie laughed and laughed. He kissed her for the second time.

.

She didn't move in. It was just that his apartment was closer to her ballet studio and she spent most of her time there anyway, so it was perfectly reasonable for her to start spending her nights there as well. It was more practical for her morning classes; that way she didn't have to rush herself through morning traffic in a hurry. It took three weeks of her falling asleep curled up beside him in bed before he seemed to realize what was happening.

"Where are you going?"

It was half past two in the morning and he was climbing out of the bed after one of those nights when she read in bed and he finished whatever paperwork were due for the next day (to think of how much time he spent on his job, he would be more diligent on that). He froze and glanced at her, ran his fingers through his hair in a nervous gesture. "I – uh, I'll sleep on the sofa so you can have the bed for yourself."

She thought this was what people in relationships did. Maybe she had been wrong. Natalie had a boyfriend in Japan once. It had lasted for two weeks until Natasha managed to get all the Intel she needed. "Why? Am I making you uncomfortable?"

He looked alarmed. "What? No – I just," for someone who was used to handling all those big shot jackass clients of the art industry, he sure was easily flustered around her. "I mean – I thought you would want – "

Natalie and Steve had been dating for five months, and they hadn't done anything aside from kissing. She didn't mind. Natasha didn't need this, and Natalie was fine with letting it run on his pace. Natalie was supposed to have commitment issues anyway – one which consisted of her getting freaked out whenever things moved to fast. If this was merely one of his weird always having a good manner thing –

She buried her face back into his pillow at his response. "Get back into bed, Rogers."

He laughed. "What am I going to do with you ordering me around like that?"

"Get used to it," she murmured, uncaring. He was silent before he gave in and pulled the comforter over them both. She shifted closer to him because he was always unnaturally warm and just because maybe that was a thing Natalie would do. He turned off the light and hesitated for a second before he wrapped an arm around her, palm splayed on the small of her back. In the darkness that followed, his eyes were unbelievably bright.

.

Doing a background check of him was the first thing that she had done. That was why what had come out of his mouth wasn't any surprise at all. Still, Natalie listened.

He told her about growing up in Brooklyn. He told her that he was sick all the time when he was younger. He told her about his dead best friend, dead parents, and the memory of a love that never got a chance. She told him a half-truth about being an orphan since as long as she could remember. After all, the best lies were always based on truths.

.

He bought her a wooden music box for Natalie's birthday.

It fit the size of her palm, the dark wood engraved with an intricate design. The melody that it sung was light and melodious. Her initials were carved on the rounded rim. It was beautiful. She had to admit that he had a good taste. Natasha didn't remember a time when she had ever gotten a present. But it wasn't for her, it was for Natalie. So she smiled and hugged him, faked it like she had faked everything else.

She got him an old record player with some records she had caught him eyeing during one of their Saturday walks. She knew he wouldn't buy it for himself. He never spent money for luxuries he didn't need. He looked up at her with his eyes wide and this boyish excitement he couldn't contain. Then they spent hours sitting on the floor arguing about which record they should play first.

.

He didn't like the cold. That was one of the first few things she had noticed about him early on. She could list many more, but this particular knowledge stuck out from the others. Still, he had offered his jacket every time they went out and it was particularly cold. She had faked a smile and accepted it because it was the polite thing to do. She hadn't told him that the cold was nothing for her bones. It wasn't until their outings were officially called dates and it was a particularly cold day in December before she let curiosity got the best of her. "Why do you offer me your jacket every time? You don't like the cold."

It took him aback, perhaps because she noticed even though he never told her, but recovered from it quickly with a shrug. "I'm okay."

That was the other thing that was striking to her. How he could be so selfless. Perhaps that was why she was so drawn to him. She was waiting for him to crack, to show her the ugliness under his mask she knew every human being possessed.

"You don't need to be a gentleman," she said, because she knew it was ingrained in him. "I like the cold."

He smiled at her. "You do? Are you sure you're not just trying to be a gentleman for me?"

She surprised herself when Natasha laughed.

.

He had nightmares. It didn't happen too often, but often enough that she knew it was something serious. He would wake in the middle of the night, panicking and breathing rapidly. She would pretend his troubled whimpers hadn't woken her up and listened to his attempt to calm himself down. Then, he would lay awake for some time before he would pull her close and hold her a little bit tighter than usual. He was always the first to fall back to sleep.

.

"Nat, I've never – "

She was well aware that her cheeks were flushed, that she probably looked as wrecked as he was, that she didn't know when the weight of him pressed against her had somehow managed to become something familiar, and that if he didn't start kissing her like he had been a few seconds ago, she was going to going to take matters into her own hands –

Yet she managed to raise an eyebrow at him. He always kissed her like he meant it, like they had all the time in the world with just enough passion to make her breathless and she just assumed – "Are you serious?"

He hid his face in the crook of her neck and his breath tickled her bare skin. His chuckle was a quiet rumble. She thought there was a trace of irony in it. "Never the right time or person, I guess."

How different their worlds had been. It was plain ridiculous. For her, this hadn't been anything new. For her, this had always been a tool. This had always been a way to manipulate, something to control. She hadn't known it any other way. Her world was always tainted and something twisted. His world was untouched and something pure.

She shouldn't be doing this. The tiny voice inside of her had started telling her that this had gone too far, and her instincts had been telling her to _run run run_ for quite a while now. This was also the first time Natasha had ever disregard them. It screamed bad decisions and sloppiness. She found out that she didn't care. She had spent more than a year to establish this life. She wasn't going to throw all of those away. That would be plain stupid and all those efforts would be a waste.

It definitely _didn't_ have anything to do with how this was something intoxicating. How this was something unfamiliar and Natasha – she had never experienced anything like this before. How his life was something foreign and she was wondering of how long before the illusion shattered. How long before everything crumbled. It definitely _didn't_ have anything to do with how she was dangling everything from her fingertips, and she had never felt more in control in her whole life. Natasha was watching everything dance and she wanted to see what was going to happen.

Natalie turned her head slightly, pressed her lips against his temple, asked: "Does this feel right?"

When he kissed her again, it was an answer enough.

.

She woke when sunlight hit her face, groaning. She still had a little more time before she had to get ready for her flight. She rolled on the bed, eyes still closed. She wondered what Steve would make for breakfast. That thought snapped her awake – because foolish her, that was exactly the kind of thoughts that would kill her. That was the kind of thoughts she shouldn't be thinking, not now, not ever. She didn't know why she had thought about that because there was absolutely no reason for her to. Natalie called him anyway, because she had a façade to keep.

"Hey," he sounded like he was smiling. It was the middle of the night, where he was.

"Why are you still up?"

There were chatters in the background. Her fingers curled around the cup of tea on the counter.

"Hang on Nat, give me a second," the sound became muffled, as if he was pressing the phone down to his shirt. "No, Tony—that's not—I know, will you please let me handle that?"

She waited for a few more seconds before he was seemingly done speaking with—apparently, Stark. "Sorry about that," he said. "Tony's been driving me crazy with his new projects and yes, Stark, I know you can hear me. How's Singapore?"

"As usual," her mark was stupidly easy to kill. She had gone out with the pretense of surveying the theatres for the next ballet tour around Asia. "Boring."

"Yeah? I've never been there before."

"Then maybe you should have taken those few days off from work after all," she said, and she poured a bit more sugar into her tea. She didn't know when she had started growing a fondness of sweets.

"Maybe I should have," he sounded like he was walking, and then the chatters in the background stopped entirely. He must have gone into another room. "Or maybe I made the right decision, because nothing beats having to listen to Tony's insane demands on a Saturday night."

She snorted. "Sure, that sounds like fun."

"You have no idea," he said, laughing. Then there was a pause before he spoke again. "I miss you, by the way." He had started saying these things more and more lately. It was as if he couldn't help it – almost as if it resembled a physical tangible thing that he needed to do. Maybe it was normal, since him and Natalie had been dating for almost a year. She didn't know.

"Sap," she said. "I haven't even been gone for a week."

"Well," he replied. "Just get back home safely, okay?"

.

The first time he said he loved her, it was not anything special. They had spent the day in the studio with him painting a new piece of art and her trying to choreograph a new dance routine for her class. The small class of fifteen people surprisingly had potential despite of her earlier scepticism of the half bankrupt studio. It had been when the sunlight had casted an orange glow in the room that he had called her name, softly. She had looked up to where he was sitting, a chair in the corner of the room. There was the same look she had seen on his face for some time. He told her that he loved her and that she didn't need to say anything. He just needed her to know.

She was sure it was going to be a mess if she let him continue, so she walked over to where he was sitting, watching her as she moved. There was a flash of something in his eyes, as if he was half expecting her to walk away. She cupped his face between her hands and traced his jaw with her thumbs. She pressed a kiss on his forehead. Natalie –

Natalie said it back.

And maybe if Natasha felt like she wanted the words to be burned away by his lips –

.

Pepper said: "He's a good guy." As she inspected high heels that would allow her to outrun the press fast enough the second Stark and Banner do something stupid with their inventions. Natasha had been told that the little mishap that had nearly blown up the Stark Tower last month was not the first and certainly wouldn't be the last. She liked Pepper because of her efficiency and no bullshit attitude. That, and because everyone in their right minds would know she held the key to Stark industries.

Natasha didn't tell many truths. This was one of them. "He is."

He was terribly, terribly good. And one day, that was exactly the thing that would destroy him into pieces.

.

They were waiting in line for the empire state building. New York. Summer. Tourists. Tell her why they were doing this during the busiest time of the year, again? Oh, right. They had been seeing each other less and less now, what with his job and her being sent out for more missions than usual. This morning he told her he missed her. She told him she hadn't realized how useful he was until no one made her breakfast before her morning ballet practices with the crew – it was only a couple of months until their supposedly next 'tour' and she had been spending more time in Russia than she was in New York lately.

"I'm gonna go get us some water," he told her. His arm was flung around her shoulders and he was wearing the same blue shirt with the one he wore on their first date.

"You better come back with some ice cream too," she told him, lowering down the boring pamphlet she had in front of her face. She had read binary codes more interesting than this.

"Okay," he laughed. Whenever he laughed, it always sounded like he did it with his heart, and he didn't know any other way to do it. "Wait for me?"

"Yeah," she said. He leaned down to kiss her forehead and then proceeded to walk away. The crowd was thick and he was just about to get out of her line of vision when he looked back and gave her a mock salute with two fingers. He was smiling. She waved back.

(She wouldn't tell anyone this. But some days she forgot she was only pretending. Some days Natasha and Natalie blurred and she didn't know who she was. Sometimes she was terrified she would fade away. Sometimes she thought the freedom was tearing her apart. Sometimes she was afraid of failure. Today was one of those days.)

.

 **To be continued.**

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	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer:** Do not own.

 **Author's note:** A necessary set up for future storyline – everything is going to be up and running in the next update. I remember now why I'm so bad at multichapters. I just hate writing plots that much. For those of you whose prompts are still unanswered, I'm slowly working through them, I promise. Real life and a bit of a writer's block got in the way – sorry! Leave a review? Enjoy!

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 **Chapter 5**

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 **Façade**

 **[a Mr. & Mrs. Smith au]**

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It took him quite a while before he realized that he had never been this – He had never felt more at peace of himself since he had gotten out from the ice than whenever he was with Natalie.

He had never felt better than when he had his arms wrapped around her and she was making fun of him (because that's what she did on regular basis), when she would wake him up with a kiss, or when she would just smile at him and they would spend hours together without a care in the world.

His feelings for her didn't creep up and it didn't hit him suddenly either. Rather, it was simply just _was_. One day he had looked up at her and he knew he loved her, but it didn't surprise him – it wasn't even something he had thought about. It was just something he suddenly knew.

"Guess again."

He pressed the phone a bit harder to his ear because of the bustling of the SHIELD gym. "Pad Thai?"

"Nope."

"Mac and cheese?"

"Impressive Rogers, only three tries."

He couldn't help but to be amused. "What can I say? Your dinner menu isn't exactly diverse."

He knew she was definitely glaring on the other end. "Hey, I'm _learning_."

"I know you are, but aren't you lucky I don't easily have indigestion?"

She scoffed, and then deadpanned: "Just what I'm looking for in a man."

"Aren't we a perfect match?"

"Don't be late for dinner tonight," she said, probably rolling her eyes or wearing that impressive poker face she always managed to use. Sometimes it still gave him a difficulty differentiating on whether she was serious or not. "Remember that I have an appointment at eight."

"Got it," he replied, lips twitching. "So I'll have to stop by to buy some eggs and butter, get Pepper and Tony an anniversary gift, and all the while I can't be late to dinner."

She hummed. "Precisely."

He bit back a sigh. She really had him wrapped around her fingers and he didn't mind it at all. He saw Clint entering the gym from the corner of his eyes and he reminded her not to burn the apartment down (to which she had replied with a very colorful curse in Russian – because the first thing she had done when he asked her to teach him Russian was to make sure he knew the curse words) before he said goodbye and hung up. Clint gave him a small wave before putting down his gym bag on the bench Steve was sitting on.

"I'm so going to kick your ass, Cap."

Steve winced. "Probably be a little easy on the bruises today." Even though there would be no evidence of them in an hour or two, sometimes there were those that would still leave him sore for a while. Usually whenever he had injuries from a mission he would then extend his days away for a few more days, with an excuse that his work was dragging a bit longer than he thought it would. Or sometimes he purposely took a few more days in advance if he knew the mission would be serious. Natalie was away as much as he was though, so that was never much of a problem.

Clint dug into the bag to grab some bandages before starting to wrap them around his hands. "What, you got a date or something?" There was a tone in it that Steve didn't really like. And it wasn't the first time.

"Clint."

"Hey," the other guy made a vague attempt at a shrug. "I'm just asking."

Steve wasn't in the mood for this. He was never in the mood for it, actually. Clint seemed to get that because he tried to change the subject. "Have you heard from Fury about Dr. Selvig yet?"

It had been a long time since they rescued Dr. Selvig, and the case had slipped from their minds. But a few weeks ago, Tony and Jarvis had been cataloguing their files when the AI had brought the particular mission back to their attention. They still hadn't found out a reason why the terrorist could have possibly wanted to kidnap Dr. Selvig, and since then they had been trying to find out why.

"No," he had tried to bring up the case to Fury but the man had merely dismissed him by pointedly saying they were concerned over nothing. Which was exactly how they knew that there was something. They had been in the business long enough to know not to take anything from SHIELD with a face value. "He's still avoiding me since that one time."

Clint's gaze turned analytic before something wary crossed over his expression for a split second. "That's a bad sign."

It certainly was. "Tell me about it."

They warmed up at the range for a while; Steve with a gun and Clint with his bow and arrow. It wasn't until Clint got to his nine arrows at once stage that they decided to start sparring. These training sessions were something they did to become more attuned to each other's fighting styles. Which was honestly very useful since they were practically strangers with nothing in common when they had first worked together. These were actually supposed to be team training, but because the others usually couldn't make it (or in Tony's case: most likely avoiding it), frequently these training sessions would end up having only Clint and Steve as their participants.

They sparred for a few rounds, taking turns at practicing attack or defense until the clock showed three pm and Steve asked them to stop. Clint rolled his eyes in disappointment but went along with Steve's request without a complaint. Steve could feel the beginning of the bruises on his chest because Clint definitely held himself back, but not much. Probably still better than nothing.

They were walking out to the parking lot, Steve making a mental note on the things he still had to do, when Clint stopped him and motioned at Steve to follow him to his car. Steve frowned but he got the sense that it was something important and followed him.

They climbed into Clint's car, a silver sedan – though Tony was still adamant that Clint should drive a pick-up truck and they were all pretty sure it had reached the point where Tony would actually buy one for him – and Clint locked the door behind them.

"Clint – "

The other guy drummed his fingers against the steering wheel, looking anxious. "Listen, Cap. I'm not supposed to tell you this. But Fury's sending me out on a solo mission."

"Solo mission?" Steve repeated, confused. All of them worked so well with each other that Fury hadn't sent any of them for solo missions for over a year.

"Yeah," Clint said with a downward curl of his lips. "I don't like it either. But the thing is, I think it has something to do with Dr. Selvig. I haven't been given the briefing yet, but I was reading the basic file when Jarvis's Intel crossed my mind so I tried to match them up – and some of them fit in really well."

That sounded bad. Steve's mind was reeling with possibilities. "Are you sure?"

"Positive," Clint replied grimly. "I _triple_ checked. You know I don't do triple checks."

He did. Steve rubbed the bridge of his nose with two fingers. What the hell did SHIELD has to do with Dr. Selvig? Why were they covering it up? It wasn't the first time they had thought that SHIELD was working on something big – the signs were all there after all. But this really screamed of something that wouldn't even remotely end well. The signs of something brewing in the shadows.

"When are they shipping you off?"

"Next week, probably Tuesday." It was already Friday.

"Is there any chance you can get the file to Jarvis?" Steve heard that SHIELD had been upgrading their security mechanisms. Not that it would be a problem for Bruce, Tony, or Jarvis, given the right reason (or sometimes none at all) for them to go prodding.

"Look, Cap. That's just plain ridiculous. Remember who you're talking to," Clint grinned. Yes, it was also not a problem for Clint either. "I already did last night – but I told him not to run anything until I make sure it's legit. I was hoping Fury would have talked to you by now and save us from all these troubles."

"I'll get the others to check it soon," Steve said. "What's your call on this one?"

"I'm still going, you know that."

"Of course," he hadn't expected any less. "Any chance to keep us updated?"

"I might have to stay radio silent," Clint reasoned. "So I probably won't be able to."

"We'll look into it," Steve reminded, frowning slightly. "Don't take unnecessary risks. Just be careful."

"And I'm hearing this from you?"

"Touché."

Clint snorted, and then hesitated. If their previous talk was worrisome, seeing that was even more so. Steve leaned forward a bit, wary of what was coming. "What is it?"

Clint looked like he was spitting the words out of his lips with difficulty. "Is there any chance you and Rushman might want to join my family for barbeque tomorrow?"

Steve hadn't expected that, at all. Still, he couldn't help but to be defensive at Clint's tone. "I thought you still don't like her."

"I don't _trust_ her," Clint corrected, a bit flippantly. "There's a big difference."

Steve honestly didn't blame Clint. The guy had the most to lose amongst all of them – he was especially protective of his family, and he was also the one who technically had the most experience in the field. Paranoia came with the job, Steve knew. He respected that Clint didn't feel like he could trust Natalie with his secret, that he thought Natalie was hiding something – and, the worst of all: he was sure he knew Natalie from somewhere. Clint and the rest of the team (who succumbed out of curiosity and Clint's words) had even gotten to a point where they had run a background check on Natalie behind Steve's back, which had resulted in a clean report and Steve's silent treatment for quite a while. Even when the others had practically warmed up to Natalie, it still hadn't lessened Clint's wariness, and Steve was okay with that. It would be fantastic if everyone would just get along, but he would never force it on anyone. "Then why are you suggesting this?"

"Because I trust you," Clint said, as if it was as plain as day. "I trust your judgment. And you might be right, maybe if I spend more time around her I'll get used to her or something. It's your call, though."

Steve narrowed his eyes in suspicion. "Are you sure there's no other reason?"

"Geez, Cap. Fine," Clint scowled. "Laura told me that my _stubborn idiot ass_ needs to get over whatever paranoia I have already because she's dying to meet Rushman and that she has _tolerated_ me for _too long_."

That was more likely. Steve chuckled lightly at that. "You should have started with that from the beginning, it's definitely more believable."

"I do mean what I said," Clint added, letting out a long-suffering sigh but still deadly serious. "I think she's trouble, or she's going to break your heart – or whatever, but I trust your judgment. Obviously she's got something in her if she can earn your trust. And since she's important to you, I think – I should probably start trying," then he winced a bit, guiltily but not much. "I do feel horrible for not returning her efforts. She has been nothing but kind." True, the last time they had a gathering, Steve had almost told her right then to not even bother – but Natalie was nothing if not persistent, so he didn't. "That's why you'll make it tomorrow, yeah?"

Steve could see that Clint was genuine, if not about the part of trusting Natalie, at least about the part of wanting to start trying to – and it was a huge leap, for him to offer her to meet his family. Although technically it had been more or less almost two years since he had gotten to know Natalie, it still was quick compared to the numerous life and death situations the team had endured together in the span of six months before Clint had muttered so much of a word about his wife and two children. He couldn't help but to feel gratitude that his trust meant that much to Clint. "Sure," he said, giving the other guy a reassuring smile. "We'll be there."

"Great," Clint noticeably brightened, now that they had gotten all the heavy stuffs out of the way. "You wouldn't mind reminding me to send the leftover paperworks from last mission to Hill, would you?"

"You do realize that it was due last week, right?"

"Darn," Clint said, with a grin that totally said he had known all along.

.

It was a two-hour drive from New York to New Jersey; all the while Natalie was relaxed while he was a bit jittery. He had told her that Clint invited them to visit his family's farm, and that his wife had wanted to meet her, and Natalie – always so perceptive and accepting, didn't even ask why none of them had ever mentioned Clint's wife and family. She had just nodded and resumed her reading, head on his shoulder. It was weird how Steve was the one to feel anxious.

He wasn't worried on whether or not the barbeque would go smoothly (though he wholeheartedly hoped it would), but rather – this felt like another piece of his _Captain America_ life was about to cross over to his _Steve Rogers_ one, and it seemed like they had been overlapping more and more lately. He didn't know how long he could keep hiding –

"Stop being so worried," Natalie said, gently poking at his arm. Her hair was tied up in a messy bun and she had her feet up on the dashboard nevermind he had told her three times already to put them back down. She loved that, bothering him whenever she could. "You worry too much."

He glanced at her from the corner of his eyes before he trained them back on the road, looking for signs on when to make the next exit point. "Stop poking me," he replied, automatic. "I'm driving."

She poked him again just because. "Then stop being so anxious – you give me a headache just by looking at you. It's going to be fine. We'll have a great time." And yeah, she was right. He always worried too much.

They stopped at a red light and he caught her hand in his, lifting it up to kiss her palm. Grinned when she rolled her eyes. Because she had once again read him and eased his worry effortlessly and he loved her for it. "I know."

They spent the rest of the trip with her singing off-key on top of her lungs on purpose to Beyonce and they arrived twenty minutes early. She suggested that they should make out on the backseat of the car while they wait, making him blush a little - though he knew she said those things most of the time because she liked seeing his reaction, and he gave her a raised eyebrow she joyously took amusement on.

Natalie walked next to him, taking in the seemingly endless vast expanse of the green grasses surrounding them. Clint's farm was a bit secluded and isolated from the others, mainly because it was super huge. Steve had been to the farm a few times before, some of them for casual visits and the others for grim worrying circumstances, so he was already familiar with the way the third stair creaks and the wooden floor of the porch thuds with their every step.

"It has a really nice view," Natalie observed as they waited in for someone to answer the front door. It really did, especially during autumn when you could see all the trees turning yellow and red. He nodded in agreement and was about to say something else when there was the sound of footsteps from behind them and a shrill voice screaming his name.

"Uncle Steve!" Steve whirled around just in time for the six-year-old girl to fling herself at him, hugging his legs and looking up with wide brown eyes. He laughed and bent down to pick her up.

"Hey Lila," he said, as she circled her small arms around his neck and giggled happily. "How's my favorite girl doing?" Lila – well, she had grown some kind of an attachment to him. She was generally a happy kid, and friendly to everyone. But there had been a time when she would cry whenever Steve had to leave after his visits. Steve wouldn't pretend Clint's scowls hadn't amused him. What can he say? He had always been good with kids.

"I went to a carnival last week," she reported, all-business-like. "I saw a clown."

"Did you take a picture?" Steve asked her and she nodded in response. He could feel Natalie watching him, and he turned his head to smile at her. "Lila, have you met my friend Natalie? She's a ballerina, come on, say hi to her."

Lila looked at Natalie in curiosity. "Ballerina?"

Natalie looked hesitant. It surprised him and he almost frowned. He had never seen her hesitant before, she was always quick and sure of herself, but then she covered it up just as fast and took a step closer to offer her hand for Lila to shake. She did that sometimes. Change her emotion with a flick of her hand. It used to bother him at first, but she had told him once about how she wasn't used to being so close with other people, so he had started to learn how to navigate himself around her whenever she did that. Honestly he didn't think she even realized she was doing it. "Hi, nice to meet you."

Lila took the offered hand and shook it – suddenly there was this giddiness in her and she beamed. "Can you teach me how to dance, Aunt Natalie?"

Natalie smiled at that. "If your mom and dad say yes, sure."

"Speaking of which, where are they?" Steve asked.

"The backyard," Lila replied, and they walked around the house to see a table had been set up next to a barbeque set which Clint was preparing. Clint gave them a small wave. Laura was arranging the plates on the table and she looked up when they approached.

"Lila," Laura reprimanded, smiling at him apologetically. "Don't cling to Uncle Steve like that, go and get your brother."

Steve put Lila down and the little girl ran to her mother and excitedly tugged at Laura's shirt. "Mom, Aunt Natalie is a ballerina. Can she teach me ballet? She said she can if you say yes."

"She said so?" Lila nodded. "Okay, we'll talk about it later, how about that? Now go and get your brother in his room." They watched as the little girl dashed into the house through the back door and Laura turned to them.

"Sorry about that, Steve," Laura said, reaching out to give him a brief hug which he returned. "She's been asking to meet you since forever. Her dad is no match to you." Clint gave a 'hey' in protest, pointing a spatula at them in warning and Steve chuckled. Laura ignored her husband and instead smiled at Natalie. "And you must be the lucky woman who gets to keep him out of trouble."

"I don't know about lucky," Natalie replied, intertwining her arm with his absentmindedly. "But he's fine with keeping out of troubles on his own, thankfully." Oh, if she only knew. He resisted the urge to swallow nervously.

"Natalie," he said instead. "This is Laura."

Laura opened her arms to also give Natalie a hug – Laura was a friendly woman, and she had this tendency of making people comfortable around her, which was probably why Natalie didn't protest when Laura embraced her. He used to think Natalie was _always_ extremely good with people and other interactions with human beings, but later on he had realized that there were boundaries around the extent of things that she was comfortable with – like these sorts of displays of affection with strangers, they didn't usually come easily for her. A bit forced, sometimes. Professional courtesies at most. Funny though, how one wouldn't notice her discomfort if they weren't looking for it. It had taken him quite a while before he realized it, after all. Yet another thing he had noticed about her that he wouldn't ever say. One thing for sure – she was the most amazing person he had ever met, and extremely complex at that. He could probably spend an abnormal amount of time just trying to figure out what crossed her mind on daily basis. That's why he wouldn't try. He would wait for her to tell him – that's the least he could do. After all, he wasn't exactly honest himself, was he?

"It's good to finally meet you," Laura told Natalie who said that she felt the same, as they took a seat at the wooden table near where Clint was still busy tampering with the grill. Steve offered to help but Clint said that it wasn't necessary because he was nearly done. "I'm sorry for – well, the mess. Let's just say that he has no sense of tidiness whatsoever." She gestured at Clint who scowled. "Hence, the farm life. It's nice though, kinda grows on you."

"You're lucky I like you," Clint drawled to Laura, who in turn grinned unabashedly at him.

"Now, that's just hurtful," Laura chided. "How's the barbeque going? I'm starving already."

"You promised me no more jabs at my spectacular domestic skills."

"Once you finally finish renovating the guest bedroom for the third time, I will."

"Again?" Steve asked, amused. Clint had tried to recruit the team's help for a makeover for the living room, but that didn't go so well. It had gone as well as one would expect, though – with Tony being overexcited and insisting to modernize everything, Bruce trying to talk him out of it, and Thor playing lego with Cooper and Lila while Steve tried his best to help. Needless to say Clint regretted every second of it, and Steve couldn't blame him.

"I didn't know you're into house renovation," Natalie said to Clint, arms folded on the table. To Steve, the statement was perfectly normal and friendly, but Clint sobered up a bit at that and Steve would be lying if he said he wasn't the slightest bit annoyed because of it.

Thankfully, before Steve did anything he might regret, Laura – who seemed to have also noticed the slight stiffening of Clint's shoulders, cut in. "Will you let Steve finish up with the preparation? Lila hasn't come back yet and I worry it's because Cooper is still busy playing with his Wii."

Clint agreed, trudging back into the house, and Steve got up to continue mincing the vegetables.

"So Natalie," Laura said behind his back. "Tell me something about yourself – though from all the times Steve talked about you, I feel like I know you already."

"Well, I work for a touring ballet group, so I'm not in the country as much. But there's nothing interesting, really."

"Not that," Laura patiently admonished. "Tell me something about you – something you like or you don't like. I need a break, what with all the shop talks around here."

He could practically feel Natalie's surprise without looking and he failed at suppressing a smile. Usually whenever she met someone for the first time, all they would be interested in was her career – because yes, hers was amazing. That was why even though she hit it off with Pepper, he had a feeling she would be great friends with Laura. "I'm learning how to cook," Natalie said.

"I can help you with that," Laura offered. "My family owns a restaurant in Seattle. I'm not saying I'm a good cook, but I try."

"I'd love that," Natalie agreed. "And I can teach Lila ballet, if she wants. I'm not saying I'm a good dancer, but I try."

Laura laughed. "We're going to be best friends."

Lunch was a quiet affair – but not unpleasant, with Cooper ranting off about baseball and Lila (who apparently had decided that Natalie was her new favorite person) showing Natalie a huge pile of her drawings which she praised good-naturedly. By the time they were finished, Steve helped Laura with cleaning up while Lila dragged Natalie off into the house to show her some more of her drawings. Usually she would do that to him, because she knew he loved to draw, but right now she seemed dead set on keeping Natalie around instead. It was actually kind of amusing. Meanwhile, Steve was still pleased because Clint had actually attempted a civil conversation with Natalie. He made a note to thank the other guy for trying later because now he was out running an errand with Cooper.

"She seems nice," Laura commented as they piled up all the dirty dishes and got rid of the leftover food. Steve glanced over his shoulder to see Natalie and Lila through the dining room window. The former was smiling at something the latter said, as they both were hunched over the dining table.

"She is." He couldn't be luckier. He paused in the middle of his motions, a stack of dishes in his hands. "Laura –, " he hesitated. This thought wasn't anything new – and with her upcoming tour in a couple of months, it had increasingly rattled in his brain even more. But somehow… "I'm going to ask her to marry me." The words hung in the air. Saying it out loud made it real.

"Okay."

He looked up. "Okay? You're not going to talk me out of it? None of the _it's too soon_ or that I _should think about it some more_?"

Laura shrugged. "Why would I? It's not like anyone can talk you out of anything."

"You don't think it's a bad idea?"

Laura smiled at him, wide and honest. "You wouldn't have told me that if you think it's a bad idea."

That's mostly true. He had actually considered this a lot. Probably a lot more than his consideration of his other life altering decisions. "What do you think?"

"It doesn't matter what I think," Laura dismissed, twirling a knife between her fingers absentmindedly in a smooth motion. "What truly matters is what _you_ think."

He knew that. He just couldn't help but to feel like he needed someone else's input on this. This was— "Please," he said, and Laura's face softened.

She pointed the knife at him. "You want to know what I think? I think with the crazy life you're living, you've lost too many chances on happiness already. I think you should grab every opportunity that comes in your way because god knows you deserve it. But I also think that there may be a possibility that you're rushing – tell me honestly, all contracts about secret identities aside, do you want to tell her? Have you thought about how she would react _if_ she finds out that you're _you-know-who_?"

"I'm pretty sure I'm not Voldemort," he replied, automatic. Because that was probably the easiest part to digest from all she was saying and because Natalie had finally gotten him to sit down and watch all the Harry Potter movies last week.

Of course he had been thinking about it. He had been thinking about it a lot ever since things had gotten serious with Natalie. Ever since he had first realized that he cared about her. Even before he realized that what he was feeling was love.

The thing with being an Avengers was – included with it were iron clad contracts about secrecy and it felt a bit like signing an agreement to let go of his life. Not that he had much to begin with, because when he had first accepted the offer he truly had nothing to lose. But later, as he had slowly regained control of what had become of his life, there were moments that got him wondering what he was doing. It wasn't that he was thinking of stopping, because frankly he hadn't known any other life and because in a way, the Avengers' work helped people – even if the people they helped didn't know it. It was still an enough motivation for him to keep doing it.

However, he couldn't help but to wonder when he had gotten to be such a good liar. During the war, his identity as Captain America had been known by all the people who were the closest to him. Bucky, Peggy, the Howling Commandoes. He never had to try to hide it too much. Then, he had other things to worry about.

Imagine his surprise (and absolute mixture of guilt, sadness, and something else entirely – a weariness in his bones) when he had woken up seventy years in the future to find out that apparently Howard, Peggy, and the others had never given up on him and had gone through extreme lengths to still keep his identity as a secret. Then Nick Fury had told him that now he had a clean slate, the name Steve Rogers and a whole new other beginning that came with it, that the war was over and he was free to do whatever he wanted to do. That the name Captain America was still his to take, should he want to take it for a spin again. So he did.

But he didn't know how to keep himself from being horrified when he realized telling a lie and keeping this dual identity thing was something he was increasingly good at. He had never been a good liar – somehow he had become one without him realizing it. Though to be fair, Natalie was the first person outside from his SHIELD and Avengers life that he had truly become close to so he probably still shouldn't say he was good at managing everything when Tony Stark was Iron Man and a billionaire in his spare time and Bruce Banner was the Hulk and a world-wide well known scientist at the same time.

Or maybe it was because Natalie could see through his lies but chose to say nothing because she was never the type to prod. In return, he didn't ask her about stories she didn't choose to tell. Or maybe, that was just the paranoid self in him speaking and he was actually that good of a liar. He didn't know which would bother him most.

So. Yes. It had crossed his mind. Once. Twice. Couldn't get it out of his head.

Frankly there were even times when he had felt the words on the tip of his tongue. When he would have his head on her lap and she would brush her fingers through his hair lazily. When she would ask him if he would be home in time for dinner and a movie. When she would say there was a show in Broadway that she wanted to see, but he couldn't go. Not to mention the guilt was always present, simmering under his skin waiting to get out. It would choke him up, clog his throat, and he knew it would be that easy to just say it. Yet it was also that hard at the same time.

First of all, he didn't know how Natalie would react – or if she would even believe him, for that matter. It wasn't exactly something anyone would easily believe. _'Hi, you might have heard about Captain America who disappeared suddenly seventy years ago. Well, I'm him. My plane crashed and I got frozen until I woke up in the future a few years ago. Nice to meet you.'_ That sounded like a bad introduction to a sitcom no one would want to watch. And he would know, Natalie (who had this thing with bad sitcoms and bad movies that he couldn't comprehend) had forced him to watch more terrible comedies than he could count. Natalie was a rational person, using logic more often than not. He was the one who she had to keep grounded for most of the time. So chances were she wouldn't even believe him if he said it, would be gone before he could say another word.

It had little to do with that, though. He knew that was a risk, had known since the beginning. Sometimes he thought that he should just rip the bandage off, because it was her choice, what she wanted to do. He would respect that – given if one day she found out, and she chose to leave, he would respect her decision. But that was the problem, wasn't it? He knew he was being unfair when he was not giving all the pieces of the puzzle to her.

Then there was the other matter of the SHIELD secrecy contracts. SHIELD was an intelligence agency, so it wasn't surprising that they took matters like this seriously. Given the ease to which information was being passed in this modern day and age, Steve supposed it was reasonable for them to worry. Truth to be told, he didn't care so much about the contracts. In his life he had done his fair share of breaking rules, after all. But with the Avengers' presence laid important secrets, ones that other people's life depended on. He couldn't risk that.

Natalie though, he loved her. Trusted her. Being around her made him happy – in a way that he didn't remember feeling since he had gotten out of the ice. He would like to spend the rest of his life with her, if he could. If she would let him. He was never surer of anything in his entire life and that scared him.

In the end, he was walking on a thin line in between his heart and his logic. He didn't know which one was winning.

Laura sighed. "This is not the time to make your humorless jokes," she said, though there was a hint of a smile on her lips. She quickly turned back somber. "If you're actually going to do this – you'll have to tell her. I'm not going to lie, Steve. It wouldn't be easy. And I love Clint, obviously. I would stay with him no matter what. But sometimes, when he would spend months without a word getting shipped off to who knows which side of the world, I can't help but to think that maybe one of the reasons why I manage to do this is because I knew exactly what I was getting into." She waved her free hand with a general motion, probably gesturing to her life and family and everything else. "We got married before all this SHIELD mess you know."

He didn't know that. They rarely talked about their personal lives. "No, I don't."

She nodded. "Yeah," she said, contemplating. "It was both easier and more complicated at the same time. The skills have always been his – he just didn't always know how to use them. Then Nick found him, and here we are."

"Clint never told me," he told her quietly. It wasn't an accusation or anything, it simply was just was. They just didn't talk about stuffs like that, he supposed. None of them exactly had a past they could be proud of. Even he had his mistakes – some that still haunted him until now.

Laura shrugged, giving him a playful jab with her elbow. "I'm just saying, you have to take these things into consideration."

They were quiet after that, folding up the table and taking care of the barbeque set. He mulled over his thoughts again and again before he decided to say something. Through the window he could see that now Natalie and Lila were hunched over the dining table, both drawing with crayons. "I've thought about it – a lot. And of course I want to tell her, it isn't my place to keep that secret just because I'm— _terrified_ of how she would react. The reason I haven't is a bit more technical than that."

"I know," she interrupted. "All the same super-secret protecting the world stuffs that I keep hearing about. I'm proud for you guys – for what you are doing. You are doing good things out there. But in the end there's more to life than that. Than fighting non-stop or what do you call it? _Avenging_."

Steve made a face. "That's… we didn't ask to be called that."

"I know. It's a dumb name. Nick has always been eccentric."

He shockingly didn't have that much difficulty in imagining Nick Fury as eccentric, so he decided not to "I just don't know what to do," he admitted. "Which one is the right thing. Sometimes I do, but it's just- it's nothing fixed. It changes."

"It's okay, I believe that you'll try to do your best, and that's what matters the most," Laura patted his arm. "And also you clearly love her a lot," she said again, and the offhanded way she had stated that made him sheepish.

"That obvious, huh?"

"Please, have you seen the way you look at her?"

Playful smirks. Soft hands. Cunning yet caring words. "She makes me happy," he confessed, it was the first time he had admitted that out loud to anyone. "And I just want to make her feel happy in return."

"You really do live up to the legend, don't you?" Laura considered, smiling. "Except the whole sassy attitude you got going on, that wasn't in the comic books. Or the documentaries. Or the history books, for that matter."

"Hush," he said, flatly. "That's not good for the press."

Laura laughed. "You'll be okay, Steve. I know you will."

Sometimes there were things that would be obvious from the start - if they would end splendidly or as epic disasters. This one didn't seem to have a light at the horizon. Too bad he didn't know it then.

"Yeah," he smiled at her. "Maybe."

.

 **To be continued.**

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	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer:** Do not own.

 **Author's note:** I am really sorry for the unwritten prompts; real life is distracting me so these things might be slower than usual. I promise I'll get around to writing them, though. Really. Next chapter the mess begins. Thank you for sticking with me so far! Leave a comment? Enjoy!

.

 **Chapter 6**

.

 **Façade**

 **[a Mr. & Mrs. Smith au]**

.

"Steve," she said. She couldn't get a read on her own voice – but frustration and ire were coursing through her veins. "Get up."

He was still on one knee, in front of her, at the café where they had first sat down and talk, besides the hall where he had had his first exhibition and near the hotel where she had killed three men. People were staring. The ring was glaring at her. He had to stand up now. He had to.

He did.

He slowly rose up to his feet, and she was too rattled to give a damn about the way his shoulders were slumped just the slightest bit and what Natalie would normally do about that. He opened his mouth to say something, blue eyes soft, but she cut him off – maybe a bit too curtly. "Let's go," she said, then without waiting for him to answer she grabbed her purse and walked briskly outside the café and to the parking car.

He followed her, a few steps behind. Her forgotten package of croissants was in his hand, the ring already out of sight. She told him to drive her back to her apartment. The extension of: _not your place, not tonight_ \- remained unsaid but was there nonetheless.

He proposed to her on a Wednesday.

And she wasn't –

Natasha wasn't losing her composure because he had proposed. She was furious with _herself_. This wasn't the first time a mark had fallen head over heels with her persona and took drastic measures. This wasn't the first time a mark had proposed to her. But this was the first time she hadn't seen it coming.

Now that she thought about it, she supposed she had seen the signs. She had noticed that he had this nervous tick in him, whenever he had an idea that he wanted to execute and was bugging his mind. It was her fault. She had merely chalked it off to something involving his newest Stark Industry project. She was sloppy.

She wasn't used to being sloppy.

The ride back to her place was filled with unusual silence. The kind of brutal silence, not the comfortable one they were so accustomed with. He kept glancing at her from the corner of his eyes, and she ignored him. That, at least – wasn't out of character for Natalie and she took it as her advantage. She had given him a picture of a woman with flaws, because based on her experience, people tended to react better to that. Everyone found the idea of perfection intimidating. She had made Natalie just the slightest bit of bitter at times, which, considering the back story she had told him, was still within reason. She had waved a web of weakness around her persona – had even gone so far to subtly convince him that she was not comfortable with strangers in her personal space by faking the tiniest bit of a flinch sometimes. It was laughable. There was no personal space in the Red Room.

Her ace card though, was her brilliant idea of telling him she wasn't that used to being attached to people. It did what she had expected it would do – give her more freedom and room to move. It wasn't like the thing that Natalie and Steve had was constraining, because he respected Natalie, more than any of her marks had ever respected any of her covers. It was still useful to make sure Natasha would one day have the opportunity to slip and he would understand and wouldn't see it as something out of character. For example, now was the right situation.

He parked the car in front of her building and gave a sign of wanting to follow her out but wasn't sure whether she would react badly to that or not. Under the streetlights she could still see the worried frown and the dejected lines of his face that he was trying so hard not to show. Over all of those, the concern was the most transparent. _Concern for her_. Unbelievable. He was as transparent as the blue sky and it was stupid. He was also stupid to worry about her when he supposedly had just gotten his heart crushed, so she didn't even know where to start with that.

One thing was sure. This wasn't good. Natasha was more professional than this. She schooled her features and gave him a resemblance of a soothing smile. Turned her body to reach up to touch his face. His eyes were always so honest. He was an epitome of naivety. _Natalie_ tried to cheer him up. Said she was sorry. "Hey – I'm just. This took me by surprise, okay? You know that I'm not good with—," she faked taking a deep breath, paused for the necessary number of seconds. "Any of this. It's all new to me." What to say? "You're the first person I've ever been this close to." Yes. That was it.

"I'm sorry," he told her, and it was heartfelt. "I shouldn't have—"

"Proposed?"

He stared at her then, and she was surprised to find his expression steely and determined. He was stubborn, that she already knew. But this was different, this was not just mere stubbornness. It was something else. He searched her face, looking for something she didn't know, and she kept her expression well-balanced. The slightest bit of still bewildered, shaken, but calmed down already. He seemed to have found whatever he was looking for, but the determination was still there.

"No," he said, more serious than she had ever remembered seeing him. "I'm sorry because I shouldn't have sprung it on you like that. It was my mistake that I had never asked you how you feel about marriage. Or maybe I'm reading some things wrong and this is not—," here, he gave her a small grin, a bit hesitant, but it was more him compared to the seriousness a moment ago. "This is not as serious as I think it is. I'm hopeless with women, I think you know that already," he chuckled as an effort to lessen the tension, and Natalie played along by giving a small smile. "But I don't regret proposing to you. I love you, Nat. And I'd like to spend the rest of my life with you." He grasped her fingers that were still resting on his face with his and tangled them together. "I need you to know that this is all up to you, that we can act as if this has never happened, if you want to. I just want you to be happy."

Her logic told her to say no. It was obviously the right choice, because he was giving her his word of acting as if he had never proposed, if she wanted to. But even though it was what he had fully intended to do, there was no guarantee things still wouldn't change without him meaning to. The human heart was silly that way.

She needed to buy some time to figure out what her next move would be. "It is," she murmured to him instead, with a note of finality in her voice, squeezing his fingers. "You're not wrong. Just give me some time to think, okay? I need to clear my head."

She ignored the way he tried to hide the crystal-clear hope and relief at her words. It was obvious that no matter what he said, Natalie was still caging his heart in between her palms and he was still waiting for the life-sentence. He smiled at her, the same genuine smile he usually gave to Natalie on sleepy Sunday mornings. "Okay," he acknowledged in a low voice, tilting his head slightly. He leaned forward to drop a kiss on her forehead before handing her a brown paper bag. "Just don't forget your croissant."

Natalie let out a breathy laughter.

.

Her apartment was dark. A lightbulb was out and she wasn't in the mood to change it. She hadn't spent the night at her apartment in ages- in between traveling on missions or staying over at Rogers' place, she had no reason to. Usually she only came over to restock her weapons before she went on briefings or other businesses concerning sensitive Intels.

"Fuck," she said, to the pristine white ceilings above her bed.

She wasn't blind.

She knew she had developed an… _affection_ for the mark. She had tried to deny it at first, but later on it had become more difficult to do so. She should have backed out the second it had gotten impossible to refuse the thought, yet she didn't. It wasn't uncommon for such feelings to develop in their line of long term undercover works. The Red Room manipulated emotions, that was what they did. Others, yes. But especially their own. How could one trick another without tricking themselves first, after all?

So, no. As long as the affection she had developed for her target wouldn't interfere for any long term goals, she had nothing to fuss about. As long as she could still put a bullet in his brain if he became a liability, she had nothing to worry about.

Besides, it wasn't much of anything. It was merely something derived from curiosity and something in her that thought it would be a shame for such potential between Natalie and him to go to waste. Natasha didn't spend this much effort for it to become nothing. That was why she knew her decision right now would be crucial.

He was an enigma to her. One of a kind, definitely. Her world was so tainted with red that she had never thought such goodness could exist. It was in the way he carried himself, in the way he spoke, and in the way he looked at life. Everything about them was so different than hers. Whereas she was full of distrust of the world, he welcomed it with open arms.

There had been moments when she was waiting for him to crack, but he didn't. He didn't, no matter how bad the nightmares would haunt him at night sometimes; he had never once acted as if he was nothing but inherently good. Then she had decided that it was just the way he was. That the kindness was ingrained in him, in the core of him as a person. It was such a rare thing. Sometimes she would even be wary of it – of _him_. Of the light in him. Sometimes she would wonder if it would burn her. If he would burn her. Light was the opposite of dark, no?

She tipped her head back slightly, letting her thoughts stray away for a moment from the matter at hand. The tour was starting again next week. This time it would be longer, they had more targets in their hit list than usual. She had mentioned it to him a couple of weeks ago, and she guessed maybe it was what had spurred his decision to propose to her this soon.

What else was on her list? Right. She would have to drop by at Barton's farm for a lesson with Lila sometime this week. Her parents had agreed for a lesson once every two weeks. At first, she didn't know what to make of it. She had never understood why Barton seemed to hate her. And hate was the right word. He never tried so hard to conceal the distrust lingering on the surface. Natasha had done her background check on Barton and the others immediately after Steve had mentioned them to Natalie. That was how she had known how to carry herself around them when Steve had introduced her. There was no surprise with Banner and Stark, for the both of them were well known and famous. With Barton, however, it was another matter entirely. Barton worked security details for Stark industry, so his cautiousness around her was reasonable. She could live with that. As long as she kept putting on a show of trying and befuddlement everytime he was rude to her, she could get everyone on her side and that would be enough for a cover. She could see that Steve definitely sided with her, judging by his displeased stares and frowns whenever Barton was being curt.

After Steve had told her that they were invited to Barton's family barbeque a week ago, she had pulled out some more Intel from other resources, because there had been no mention of him having a family in her initial report. In the new reports, there still hadn't been anything about his wife and two kids. Instead, she had found his darker past. He had been mixed up with some bad crowds, making a reputation for himself. Then suddenly one day it had just all disappeared. She had gone through great lengths to just acquire what little information there was. She supposed Stark was powerful enough to have a hand in that, in hiding the details about his past and family – he probably wouldn't want it to be known that his head of security and _friend_ had some suspicious criminal records, and hiding his family was better for protection. Still, the fact that she had been around them for two years and there had absolutely been no slip-ups was astounding. Granted, they were all people with high-power so they were most likely used to secrecy (Stark and Potts with company secrets, Banner with classified science projects, and Barton himself because of his job. Rogers, though. She still couldn't wrap her head around the fact that he had hid it from her – though she supposed it was obvious because he was a fiercely loyal person, and his reluctance to speak about Barton's family was maybe out of loyalty than anything else.) and she really hadn't spent that much time with them personally, what little she had was only on gatherings or Stark events. The most personal was probably shopping trips with Potts. But it spoke of how much she had underestimated them. She needed to do more background checks.

She liked Laura. She didn't expect that, because she had nothing in common with Laura. Laura was not like Potts, with whom Natalie had some similarities with. And yet, there was toughness in Laura, not on the surface, but something lingering. _Natasha_ liked that. Cooper and Lila… she had no qualms about them. It was even interesting, to see how Natalie would react in such situations. Natalie hadn't have any interaction with any kids yet, not as young as Lila and Cooper. It was a good aspect for character development. It was something resembling a family.

Family.

That concept was foreign to her, yet it was also wasn't at the same time. Red Room was Natasha's family, in the only way that mattered. She had known Steve wanted one, and that he had one, once upon a time. Natalie had never had one before.

Natasha's hand reached out to her bedside table without her realizing it. Her fingers grabbed the rounded object there, and she brought it up to her line of vision. Her fingers traced the intricate carving on the music box – the one he had given her for Natalie's birthday, and she opened the lid. The melody came tumbling out, and it reminded her of an old lullaby, one she hadn't heard before but could remember in her bones.

She supposed there would be no harm done in saying yes. If anything, it might make her appearance more solid. Gave Natalie one more reason to stick around. Maybe. Perhaps.

 _Yes_.

Judging by the way he kissed her again and again when she told him; face brighter than she had ever seen before, maybe she did make the right choice. At least for now. He trailed kisses down her neck. She gave up on thinking entirely.

.

They spent two days cramped up in his apartment, not getting out of bed, and not doing much talking either. He seemed to be in a bubble of contentment of some sort, oddly happy and lighthearted. Maybe that was how someone was supposed to be feeling, after getting _engaged_. Huh. She entertained him because she had nothing else to do. She had done all the necessary preparation from the upcoming tour (mission), and now she was only passing by the time.

She traced the veins on the inside of his wrist lazily and he chuckled, dropping another kiss on her shoulder. The simple diamond on the ring shone when the sunlight hit it, and she stared at it some more. He noticed it, of course.

"If you don't like it, we can always return it," he commented, furrowing his brows. "I – uh, wanted to give you my mother's but I lost it a long time ago. I tried to get one made just like it, but it's still not the same. It's…" He didn't continue.

"This is what your mother's ring looked like?"

He turned his hand and took hers, lifting them up together. Squinted a bit at the sunlight. "It was the most precious thing we had. She almost sold it once, when I was really sick and we had absolutely nothing to buy medicine with. I sort of had an outburst at that and made her promise not to ever do that. Thank god I got better the next morning." His eyes glazed over with memories. "Still can't believe I lost it," he added as an afterthought, almost guiltily.

"It doesn't matter," she told him. "It's really beautiful. I love it."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

The conversation died down again after that, and he was the one finally breaking the silence.

"She would have loved you," he softly said, making her pull back to get a better look on his face. She didn't know what to say to that, and settled on drawing him in and kissing him some more. He relaxed into her touch, kissing her back.

"You know," she started, in between kisses. "This tour is going to take a while." Six months, give or take. And she didn't know if she would be able to sneak out back to America in between the shows, she told him. He hummed in understanding, but a crease appeared on his forehead.

"What?"

He hesitated. "Maybe I can visit you, sometimes. Take that long overdue vacation Stark owes me," here he grinned, a boyish charm. "And we'll finally get that trip we've been talking about."

"I suppose you could," she murmured absentmindedly, only pretending to be half-considering the thought. No way in hell would she let him do that – it would be such a mess.

"I could," he agreed. And there was that.

He didn't.

It turned out that just as she was getting busy, so was he. He was upset about that, she could tell by the dejected tone of his voice when he called her a few days after she had arrived in Berlin. She pretended she was also disappointed.

"I might not be able to see you at all," he said, not quite whining but almost. She never thought there would be a day when she heard him do that. It almost made Natalie (Natasha?) smiled in amusement.

"глупый, then finish your job and come visit me."

"That was an insult, wasn't it?"

"нет."

"I know as much that was Russian for no, yet you keep using that as a yes. Did I miss an announcement somewhere when they're exchanging the meanings between да and нет?"

Now Natasha did roll her eyes. "You think you're so smart, don't you?" She accused, and she could imagine his shit-eating grin so clearly it startled her.

"Not as smart as you."

She hoped her voice didn't come out as breathless as she thought it was. "Clever, who taught you how to flirt?"

"You did."

She snorted at the smugness of his voice when her words backfired. "Well."

.

The problem with her—and it was not a problem, not really, not ever. Was that she did her job, and she did it well. She didn't know failure, didn't know the term: _compromised_. Those were two distant things to her, and that was what made her as she was. That was what made her the Black Widow.

It was all she had ever known to be.

At least, she had thought so.

Her lips curled with dissatisfaction when the body of the man – all brute strength and absolutely no common sense, dropped to the ground with a loud thud. He was a foolish, foolish man if he had thought Red Room was something he could try to screw with, running away to the edge of the world with huge sum of money not belonging to him and bragging about it to random people on the street. He had seen her, standing inside his hotel room with her gun drawn, and he had resorted to begging – _begging_ her to let him go. She hadn't.

It was nothing unusual – you'd be surprised at people's reaction whenever they saw her and they put two and two together during those last few seconds of their lives. What was unusual, however, was how she had _felt_ when she heard the gun went off.

She felt…

She didn't actually feel anything.

She didn't feel the usual sense of purpose – of satisfaction that she usually had whenever a mission was accomplished. It was something she felt because of the knowledge that she had done something useful – something that was asked of her for her country. For the Red Room. It was something that they had ingrained in her, with countless sessions under bright light and pain and intense darkness and solitude. A gratitude for the country that had given so much for her. She didn't feel it now.

She didn't feel it now.

It bothered her.

There was nothing more important than what she did for the Red Room – _nothing_. She needed to remember that. It was dangerous to forget.

She cleaned up the scene and got rid of all the security cameras. Drove back to the hotel quickly, as if she had never left. She had to compose herself. She had to.

By the time she reached her room, it was almost two in the morning. She was opening her purse to reach for the key card when - "Natalia!" A shrill voice greeted her and she turned around on her heels to see blond hair, soft features, and blue eyes. " _Where were you?"_

She suppressed a sigh. She wasn't in the mood for this. "You fully know where I've been, Yelena."

Yelena grinned, wide and cunning, stopping right by her side in front of Natasha's hotel room. "Don't be so sour, I was just looking for you."

At that, Natasha paused fishing inside her purse for her key card. "Why? Is he looking for me?" _Their handler_. "He knew I was out." _On a mission_.

The blond haired woman pouted, rolling her eyes. "It's nothing like that – _Natalia_ , I barely see you anymore. Come on, let's have some fun. Grab a drink, or something."

"Not tonight Yelena," she nearly snapped. She was still wrung out by post-mission adrenaline and she needed to call – "I have some things to do."

She managed to get her door open and was about to slip into the room and slam the door behind her when Yelena said something that made her blood ran cold – " _What_ , like dealing with your fiancé back in America?"

She hadn't told anyone. Had even hidden the ring back at Steve's place, under a loose wooden floor panel on the corner of his bedroom alongside with her gun. Had told Steve that she wanted to keep it quiet because she wanted some more privacy for them while they could have it – that she couldn't wear the ring during tour because of some publicity issues. He had made a face, but hadn't made a big deal out of it. Until now she couldn't explain why her first instinct was to hide it from the Red Room. Perhaps because it was irrelevant to the mission parameter. Yes. That was it.

Yelena's grin turned a bit wicked and she put a single finger in front of her red lips, the universal gesture of keeping it quiet. Her voice was nonchalant but her pupils glinted with warning. "Are you still saying no to that drink?"

Natasha let Yelena slid past her into the room.

The other woman looked around Natasha's spacious hotel room, before letting out a carefree laughter and dropping herself onto the bed. "So lucky of you to have the room for yourself – I have to share with Anita and _I_ ," she flicked her wrist at Natasha's direction. "Absolutely hate it."

Yelena was a recruit for the third wave of the Black Widow program - just a few years after Natasha. Like Natasha, she had also joined the Red Room at a very young age, and they had grown up together under the relentless circumstances of their training. Yelena – it seemed, had idolized Natasha as a big sister when they were growing up, because it had been impossible to separate them. Meanwhile, Natasha had enjoyed the attention – _the adoration_ that was so lacking in her childhood and treated Yelena as a friend in return. But then Natasha had been chosen as the official face behind the Black Widow mantle, and they had drifted apart.

"Vodka?" Natasha asked, walking over to the mini bar. She had to play her cards right here. Yelena wasn't a threat to her, but she could be dangerous if Natasha wasn't careful. And right now, she didn't know what Yelena wanted.

"Are you mocking me, Natalia?" Yelena answered lightly, smirking. "Of course I want Vodka. I've missed your sense of humor."

Natasha poured two glasses of Vodka and handed one to her. Yelena raised the glass and stared at the liquid inside it, shaking it slightly to see the way it sloshed around. She took a sip and Natasha followed suit, still watching the other woman cautiously.

"Oh, come on," Yelena frowned at her, kicking her heels off and crossing her legs on the bed. "Don't look at me so warily, Natalia. You're no fun. Are you worried about your boy back _home_?"

"If you mean the Red Room interfering and blowing my cover and efforts to waste, then yes," Natasha replied icily, quirking an eyebrow. "I have some qualms about that."

Yelena hummed and stared at her, judging. Natasha didn't betray anything away. Finally she said, "They're watching you, you know. They think you're compromised. Are you, Natalia?"

 _They're watching her_ \- ? "What do you mean- they're watching me?"

"They sent me to watch you," Yelena responded, absolutely unbothered by the way Natasha glared at her. "Don't worry, I didn't send the pictures with the engagement ring. Thought you would have included it in the monthly report by now. Yet you still don't." How come she didn't notice Yelena? How come?

Yet the answer was obvious. Because Yelena was almost as good as her at what they did. And Natasha had been drunk with the comfort of Natalie Rushman's life. She hadn't been looking. _Stupid. Stupid. Stupid._

"I don't find it relevant to the mission perimeter," Natasha said calmly, putting her drink down on the table behind her. "I've reported everything important and it's going smoothly. If they have problems with how I run it, they should bring it up to me."

Yelena's gaze was still steady, fingertips tapping against the side of the glass of Vodka in her hand. "Do you remember Amsterdam? When you were fifteen and I was twelve – and there was this huge explosion in the target's mansion?" That was their first independent mission. And they hadn't realized until later that it was a test. That the explosion and everything else was rigged by the Red Room. "You pulled me out of the fire. You saved my life."

"I remember."

Yelena hummed. "For that, I'll keep this little secret of yours. Just tell me one thing: are you compromised, Natalia?"

"No," she said. And that was the truth.

Yelena noticeably brightened. "Good, imagine how awkward this conversation would have been if you were." She drowned the rest of her drink in one gulp and stood up; carelessly picking up her heels in one hand and handing the empty glass to Natasha with her other one. She patted Natasha's shoulder with her newly freed hand. "You know that I got your back, right – Natalia? You're like a sister to me."

Natasha smiled back, a curve of her lips just as fake as the one Yelena was giving her. "Of course, Yelena. Thank you."

Yelena -

There was no other way to describe her other than volatile and unpredictable. But she was also loyal, to an extent. She loved her secrets – so much. She had a level of curiosity no one would be able to match, and enjoyed keeping the power a secret could hold.

Natasha couldn't trust her.

But she knew that she was safe. For now. She just had to make sure she didn't turn her back.

.

The Red Room gave her a week off.

It was because she had finished her list of missions way before she was supposed to and there was no performance for two weeks. Usually she would spend it driving around whichever country she ended up in with a rented car, but this time she decided to go back to America. It was a logical choice; she needed to check up on her cover there. Never mind that he called her almost every day without fail, making Natalie smile each time he did.

This weekend they were invited to another Stark Gala, which—she honestly thought was more of a product of Stark's ego than anything else. (And maybe, much needed good publicity when everything else Stark did on daily basis wasn't.) Steve had complained about going there alone, because he absolutely hated attending those social events – which was weird, considering his job, so Natasha was thinking that maybe Natalie could surprise him at the event.

Good – wasn't it? Great idea. Natalie wasn't someone who came up with these _romantic_ notions, it had always been him. He was always the one who came up with these silly little things that would probably be other women's dreams. Like on their last anniversary which she didn't even remember, he had made her breakfast in bed and had even gotten her a present. Natalie was simply horrible at reciprocating those gestures. She figured this one was something she could do.

As for Yelena and the Red Room, for now there had been no signs of Yelena acting in opposite of her words, and Red Room hadn't betrayed any sign of terminating her mission – so she felt save enough to put that in the back of her mind for now. She could just report the engagement in next month's paperwork. She had no reason to worry. She wasn't compromised, and she would never be. They would see that, because it was the truth.

She went to her apartment to change into her dress and dropped by his to pick up her engagement ring. She knew he would already be gone by then. She passed the massive front doors of the hall quite easily, because she knew Hogan who had laughed when he saw her and once again offered to teach her some boxing. And she had replied, just as always: _maybe some other time_ , _I don't really like violence_.

She stood amongst the crowd and searched for the sight of broad shoulders and blond hair. The thing about him – he would hunch his shoulders sometimes, as if he was trying to make himself smaller on reflex, a distinct movement and posture whenever he wasn't so self-conscious. She would recognize his shoulders anywhere. She didn't realize –

There was anticipation in her, at the prospect of seeing him, and it was ridiculous because –

She spotted him.

He was standing near the refreshment stand, and he was not alone.

Steve was such a tactile person, even when he didn't realize it most of the time. Because besides being tactile, he was also _oblivious_. That being said, there was absolutely no way he didn't realize that the brunette who was brushing a hand against his arm and looking at him with _that_ look was trying to get into his pants. It was a classic move, and she would know, wouldn't she?

She was about to turn around and left, because for some reason this was pissing her off. Her work could go down the drain, just like that. She hated it. But then he looked at her direction and saw _her_.

His face lit up.

There was no use in pretending she was never there (although she could blend in with the crowd and disappear so very easily) because their eyes had met. She watched as he said something to the brunette, something that had made the woman's face split in obvious disappointment. She watched as he approached her, navigating through the crowd as if he couldn't get to her fast enough.

"Hey stranger," he said, breathless, when he was standing right in front of her close enough that she could feel his body heat. "What are you doing here?"

She squinted up at him. "Who was that?"

"Who was who?"

"The woman from before."

"Oh, her? She's Stacy from my art class, the one I've been telling you about?" And yeah, she remembered Stacy. She had been attempting to get closer to Rogers for quite a while. Though of course, he didn't realize it was what all the emoticons and frequent text messages were about. It wasn't that Natasha was oblivious, because she knew he was attractive and the fact that he was single and had never attempted a serious relationship before still surprised her sometimes – but seeing it with her own two eyes was bothersome. She didn't put this much effort to anything for it to go to waste. "I recruited her for this gala's decoration team because – don't tell Tony I said this, she's a fan of Stark."

"I bet she is," she muttered.

He frowned. "What?"

She didn't dignify that with an answer and instead turned on her heels to walk to the exit. She could hear him calling her, and his footsteps following her, but she ignored him.

It wasn't until they're out in the garden and she stopped walking because there was nowhere to go and she had mistakenly thought there would be a way to circle the building (she could definitely scale the side wall in that dress, if only _he_ wasn't watching her), that he tried again. "Natalie, talk to me. What's wrong?"

"Why don't you go and talk with _Stacy_ some more?" She blurted out, indignant. She didn't come this far for her efforts to go to waste. He furrowed his brow before something akin to realization dawned on him and he grinned. This wide, amused grin. She didn't know why he looked so pleased.

"You're cute when you're jealous," he told her finally. She glared and crossed her arms in front of her chest. She was not jealous. She didn't do _jealous_.

"I'm not jealous," she hissed at him, scowling when it merely made him grin wider. The gala's music pulsed in the background, and she was well aware of people passing by. She turned around to leave, probably back mingling with the crowd inside—bickering like two year olds was not what she needed right now, but his hand grasped her arm.

He pulled her into an embrace she didn't reciprocate because - how dare he for suggesting something like that. But then he cupped her face in his hands - and still grinning, kissed her hard. It was something he had never done before. He was never one for grand public displays of affection because he knew she didn't like them. But this. It drove her train of thoughts away and she kissed him back. _This is different_.

She didn't know how long it had been. Her senses were clouded and every rational bone in her body told her this was—this was dangerous. _This is dangerous_. That realization made her pulled away, gasping for breath. He pressed his forehead to hers, smiling softly. She suddenly couldn't remember when she had last seen him that happy. It seemed like a very long time. Impossible, wasn't it? She had only last seen him a month ago. It wasn't supposed to matter, but why did it? She wasn't supposed to care, but why did she?

"I love you," he said. He said that a lot, and like every single time, he was sincere.

There was something gnawing at the pit of her stomach, something warm and cold at the same time. Something coated with fear and want. Fear and want and –

She closed her eyes to escape his gaze—always full of adoration and trust whenever he looked at her. He was terribly, terribly good. And she thought, _no_.

 _No_.

So she said, "You're ruining my make-up, Rogers."

He laughed. She was truly, utterly, screwed.

 _They think you're compromised. Are you, Natalia?_

.

 **To be continued.**

.


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer:** Do not own.

 **Author's note:** This chapter is for iavenge, whose relentless reminder is the reason I managed to finish this chapter. I swear, I'm not made to write multichapter fics. Also there's Thor in this, and you may or may not have noticed that I've been avoiding to write him in everything I have ever written because he is such a complex character that I still don't fully get a grasp on and I worry I might do him injustice. So. Yeah.

 _._

 _ **Chapter 7**_

 _._

 **Façade**

 **[a Mr. & Mrs. Smith AU]**

"So," Tony said, and Steve pretended for a second that he didn't know the exact words that would be coming out of his mouth. "You got engaged."

"How long have you been waiting to say that?" Steve asked instead, focusing his gaze on the scattered papers in front of them. He already had a feeling that Tony had a hidden agenda the second the other man had offered to help Steve with SHIELD's paperwork.

"A while," Tony shrugged indifferently, but there was smugness in his tone – of himself, for restraining himself for so long. Unbelievable. "Point is: you're engaged now."

"I know that, Tony. I'm the one who got engaged," Steve bit out, maybe a bit snappish. "Spit it out already." Tony was Tony – it meant that he absolutely had no idea on how to do things straight-forwardly, his mind too complicated to be able to do so. And Steve had little patience for that today – he hadn't slept for two days because of three back-to-back missions, and unlike Tony, caffeine did nothing to help him. He was lethargic, but he couldn't sleep because of the leftover adrenaline. Add that to the pile of work he had to send out tomorrow. _Absolutely fantastic_.

Tony squinted at him. "I'm going to pretend you didn't just use that tone with me – and do I have to mention your suspicion that I'm about to do something rude is hurtful, Rogers? I'll have you know that I do have manners – I was raised to be a billionaire, you know." Steve sighed and muttered that he was sorry. "Good. I just want to say congratulations – because I'm pretty sure I haven't said it yet."

"Thanks Tony," Steve replied, oddly cautious.

"Now that we got it out of the way, let's move to a more serious matter – though I'm sure you have already figured everything out, right? The logistics and everything else? After all, you're the man with the plan."

There you go. "What do you mean figure everything out?"

"SHIELD's secrecy contracts," Tony said automatically, flinging his feet to the top of the table. Steve eyed them warily. "What are you going to do about them? You surely have everything figured out already."

"Get your feet off my dining table please," Steve said. Then, with a bit more reproach. "What does SHIELD have to do with this?"

A deadpan stare. "First off, I didn't know you're one for denial. Have you been repressing warm fuzzy feelings for me? Because I'm starting to think you have. On another note, we both know SHIELD has everything to do with this, with her. You're Captain America, and the contracts around that are pretty air tight."

"I don't know yet," Steve sighed, giving up on any shred of hope that he would be able to finish his work early.

"Yeah, keeping the secret is going to be a bitch," Tony remarked suddenly. "But you'll manage."

Steve straightened at that, looking at Tony with narrowed eyes. "Wait, what? _Keeping the secret_?"

"Of course, you're not planning to tell her about who you are, are you?"

"She's my fiancé, Tony," Steve said. "She deserves to know."

"We just don't think you should tell her."

"We? Who's _we_?"

"Just… some people."

" _Stark_."

Tony scowled. "Fine, Spangles. We – us, the rest of the team. The whole band of brothers."

Steve felt like he could throw his hands up in frustration. He couldn't believe they were talking about this behind his back. He thought they had gotten past their trust issues a long time ago. "I can't believe— not that this whole thing is your _goddamn_ business, but why the hell would you - ? I thought you guys like her."

"Oh come on, stop that – in my defense, they shouldn't have chosen me for this talk, this whole thing is their fault," Tony tapped his fingers on the table, restless. "And hey we like her alright; she's really great and what-not. That's not the problem."

Then it dawned on him. Like heavy blocks of ice. The words were out of his mouth just like that. It tasted bitter. "You don't think it's going to last."

Tony actually paused, giving him a wry look. "Yes. To be honest, I'm not sure it will work out between you and you can't tell me that I'm wrong because I know deep down you know the possibility exists. Pepper has been by my side for ten years now, and she found out by accident. No offense Cap, but you've only known your fiancé for what – more or less three years, and half of the time it's either you're on missions or she's on tours. You barely spend time together."

"If that's the only thing standing in the way," Steve said sharply. "Then I think the world can do without Captain America."

And he meant it. He did. Captain America was who he was – but that was not all he was, not anymore. Natalie had shown him that, that there was more to his life than this. Than _fighting_. That for once, his dreams, the dreams of a hopeless-bright-eyed kid back in Brooklyn, for a stable and peaceful life, had a chance to be true.

If he had to choose between being with Natalie or fighting as Captain America—

If she ask him to—

Didn't he sacrifice so much for other people already? _Why couldn't he have just this one thing_?

Tony was horrified. "You don't mean that."

Steve's mouth curled angrily. "Try me."

"Oh," then Tony got quiet, watching him with a calculating look that other people would have misinterpreted as disinterest. "You really love her."

He did. He really, really did. "Why the hell do you think I asked her to marry me? Out of boredom?"

Tony leaned back. "I'll change my argument then," he said. "Let's say that you told her, and she's fine with it, and everything with SHIELD's contracts got sorted out – what if, there comes a day when they figure out who the man behind Captain America is? Who to say they wouldn't target the one thing he cherishes the most?"

Steve opened his mouth, to argue, to say something—but Tony raised a hand and stood up. "I can tell right now you're really close to throwing me off the balcony—not that I think you're morally capable of such things, so I'll see myself out before it actually happens." He said the whole thing quickly, blurting out word per word but not without conviction. "Just—think about her safety, Cap," and this was what had prevented Steve from saying another word: how Tony smiled, a tortured curve of his lips. "Believe me, if I could have saved Pepper from all the burden of this knowledge forever, I would."

Then he was gone, leaving Steve in an empty apartment staring blankly at stacks of paper files.

.

There was something different in her.

He couldn't describe what it was, except that it flashed in her eyes whenever she looked at him, was pinched in the features of her face whenever she thought he didn't notice. It was something quiet and subtle, yet it was as clear as day to him, the change in her.

First of all, she worried constantly. He wouldn't call it worrying, not really – when it was in the form of more constant text messages and phone calls (he was happy, let's be honest), but for her, it was a bit alarming. It wasn't that she never texted or called him, but usually he was the one who initiated them (although she would keep the exchange going back and forth). When she did start them, it was usually only to ask about his whereabouts or telling him she would be coming over. She never started _conversations_ – no matter which side of the world she would be in. But now she did, and he was torn between being happy and worried himself.

The second thing—

The second thing. It may only be his feeling, and his intuition, or whatever, but she was—

Her 'I love you's were a bit more breathless these days.

God, he didn't even understand his train of thoughts. She did that to him sometimes, turn his rationality into mush with a flick of her wrist and a curl of her lips.

He really had no idea what was going on her mind.

He felt guilty beyond reason for hiding who he was and what he did. Their schedules rarely matched, whatever mission (Stark Industries' worldwide art project, he told her) SHIELD sent him to seemed to almost always fall during the times when she was able to stay. And then whenever he had no mission, she would be the one going. The times they could meet in between their frantic schedules were brief and becoming increasingly rare. He figured he was to blame for the distance between them. She had no tour this week, she told him one day in February. He was shocked, staring at her with wide eyes because after the tour started three months ago, he had only seen her a couple of times (now, and at the Stark gala) and they were merely for three days at most. She shrugged, red hair splayed on the pillow as she traced his spine lazily. She must have read the expression on his face because she said: "I just figured you should know."

The guilt actually hit him hard and fast he found himself at loss with what to say. He actually had things to do this week; like that drug cartel he and Clint were assigned an undercover duty to. He had volunteered because Hill was suddenly pulled into an emergency long term thing in Siberia and Clint was left without a partner. The others were not… undercover material, to say the least. Bruce was, if you counted out the part where he might turn into a green creature if he loses control for even a second. Tony would never be able to resist going out with a bang. But had he known Natalie… he would…

That made the ache worse, because how could he even consider the possibility of leaving Clint to deal with that alone? Sometimes he thought if he could just tell her—but as soon as the thought crossed his mind (like during every other minute of his days) Tony's words came back to him. _Her safety_. He had her safety to consider. Tony's words weren't anything that hadn't crossed his mind before, since it was one of his top reasoning on why he couldn't tell Natalie, but having someone spelling it out to him like that—

"Well," she said again, quirking an eyebrow at him. She didn't prod the subject any further—he didn't know how she had become so adept at reading him. It was one of the things about her that made him constantly amazed; she could always decipher his moods and his little tells better than he knew himself. Sometimes he wondered if she could read him whenever he was lying. If she could (and she probably could), she never mentioned it to him. He figured it was because she believed in his privacy. He knew she herself had her own secrets and it didn't bother him. She had told him, right from the start, that she was not going to be an easy person to be with sometimes. He was willing to accept that and even understood it to some extent. Didn't he get frozen in ice for—how many years, again? If one understood personal issues, it would be him. "I have nothing to do today. How about some breakfast in bed?"

He felt himself grinning despite of all the thoughts still raging in his head. He didn't understand how he got so lucky to have her there in his arms. "Pancakes?"

"Are you seriously asking me that?"

"Just making sure," he playfully pressed a kiss against the corner of her lips. Slow and lingering. She pushed his shoulders and pulled at the blanket covering them.

"Now get up and make me breakfast, Rogers."

He laughed and stood, grabbing his shirt from where it was so recklessly thrown the night before. "Strawberries?"

"And coffee," she said slowly, as if he was ridiculous for even asking that.

"And coffee," he echoed.

And she smiled, just that once.

For him, it was more than enough. He would cross the bridge when it comes to it. Right now—

He just wanted to enjoy it as long as he could.

.

Except: nothing could ever go smoothly for him.

Alien invasion in New York.

He had officially seen everything.

Loki, Thor's brother, came to Earth and brought chaos with him. Then Thor himself came back, asking for help. Clint got compromised, mind twisted. Bruce almost got rage-controlled by the sceptre. Tony flew a missile to a portal to god knows where and almost died. The Avengers was forced to fight in the open, covert operation be damned.

Speaking of covert—

"Where's your mask?" Bruce asked Clint as he dabbed alcohol on a pretty huge gash on Steve's torso. He winced. They were all sitting inside the ruined Stark tower, waiting for Fury to arrive after he surveyed the mess below.

"What—oh, it got burned sometime during the fight," Clint answered absentmindedly. Steve could tell that he was really shaken by what had happened, but he was trying to pretend he wasn't. Clint's hands were shaking. Just slightly, but shaking all the same.

"Did anyone see you?" Tony asked, concerned. His face was still pale—his heart did stop after all. The remains of his suit were scattered around where he was sitting on the floor. "And when did this happen exactly?"

"No, I was careful. And I don't know, shortly before you caught the missile, probably," Clint said. He was inspecting his phone, perched on a scorched sofa, possibly waiting for a response from Laura.

Steve frowned. "Tony, can you ask Jarvis to wipe the security footages of the buildings? Just in case."

"Did you hear that Jar?" Tony said. "Chop chop."

"Yes, sir. Right away."

"This is my fault," Thor grimly said, standing by the window. "I thought Loki was dead."

"This isn't your fault, Thor," Bruce said. "It's not your fault your brother is…"

"Crazy," Tony cut in. "Total psycho."

"Not helping," Bruce muttered as he started to stitch Steve's wounds. While he did not suffer any psychological trickery from Loki like the others, Steve got beaten up pretty badly. One of his legs was broken, a few ribs cracked, and then there were the gashes and scratches, oozing a huge amount of blood. He was pretty sure he was suffering from concussion, since there had been a point where he almost blacked out during the fight. He had collapsed just after the battle ended and he woke up an hour ago to Bruce's prodding. It would take a while for him to be able to really recover from this.

"It is true that he is troubled," Thor admitted, eyes still inspecting the horizon. "But he was not always so. There had been a time when—"

"Excuse me," Clint said suddenly, standing up before walking briskly (well, as brisk as he could when he was limping) out of the room, shoulders taut.

"Thor," Steve said, concerned and a bit breathless from the pain of the needle. They didn't know the full extent of what had happened between Clint and Loki, not really. Not yet. "He's just—"

"I understand," Thor said, turning towards them to give them an unconvincing smile. Thor seemed different. A little bit more burdened, than the last time they had seen him. "If anything, I should be the one making the apology. I was insensitive to talk about Loki in such offhanded way. What had happened between our comrade and Loki is terrible, and I suspect it might take a while for the damage to heal."

"Sir, Dr. Banner, Colonel Fury is downstairs and he asked for your presences," Jarvis announced.

"Tell him I'm busy stitching Steve up," Bruce replied, not looking up. Steve adjusted his breathing when the needle pierced into his skin again.

"And I'm not going down without my science bro," Tony sang. He hadn't stopped fidgeting with the hem of his shirt, conspicuously, as if it would prevent the others from noticing.

"It's alright Bruce," Steve interrupted. "I might… need a breather." During times like these Steve absolutely hated the fact that painkiller didn't work on him.

Bruce's eyes flashed sympathetically. "Okay," he agreed. He finished the wound he was working on then he handed Steve a sterile wet cloth. "Make sure you keep pressure on the one on your shoulder. We'll work on it when I get back."

Steve nodded, sagging against the wall. He was sitting on a make-shift operating table that the others had conjured from a secretary desk. He watched as Bruce and Tony went down the elevator, quietly discussing something along the way.

Thank God, Natalie was not in the country.

He couldn't describe the relief that coursed through him, just that it was blinding and had his heart beating fast. Now that he had time to actually think, it became clear that he wouldn't know what he would have done if Natalie had been in New York, amongst the aliens which were killing civilians here and there with no remorse. _She's okay, she's fine, and she's not here_.

He should probably call her, no doubt she would have already heard about this whole mess by now, since it had happened for two days before they were able to figure out how to close the portal. The last time he had called her she was worried and he had assured her that he was alright: _Yes, Nat. I wouldn't do anything 'idiotic' and I would run if I see danger coming. Happy?_ \- He yearned to hear her voice, calming and light. He yearned to hold her, he—

"And how are you? It has been a long time since I have last seen you," Thor said, cutting through the haze of Steve's reverie.

He blinked. "I'm alright," he didn't know what to say. It seemed silly to bore Thor with tales of running around doing Stark Industry's art errands, even though he enjoyed doing it and even though he knew Thor held a high-esteem for Midgard's culture –

But something caught Thor's eye. "Congratulations my friend, I did not know that you have gotten married." He realized Thor was staring at his hand which was pressing the wetcloth against his wound, the one with the glinting engagement ring on it. "I wish I could have been there for the celebration."

"I'm not married yet," Steve replied, tilting his head. His body ached all-over. "We just got engaged, but thank you - Thor. I appreciate it." He was probably the only one besides Laura and Pepper who was genuinely pleased about it.

"Something is troubling you," Thor observed. "And I do not mean to pry – but surely such matter is a source of joy?"

Steve refrained himself from biting his tongue. "It is," he said. "I mean—I am happy, really." Thor said nothing, just let a patient silence to wash over them, and it was so inviting that Steve couldn't help but continue. "I haven't told her that I'm Captain America yet, and I want to, I do – but it's not that easy because it's dangerous for her, and, well, there are also other complications." He finished lamely, clearing his throat.

"Captain, I hardly think I am qualified to offer an advice about this," Thor said. "For I am not familiar with your fiancé. However, I do know you – and anyone who has captured your heart is surely worthy and capable of making her own decision," Thor smiled a wistful smile at him, too understanding, too experienced. "But love is never easy, is it not?"

Steve thought about _his mother, Bucky, Peggy_ —

He exhaled.

"No, it's not."

"Ah, but what you have to know, Captain, is that when such opportunities exist, one has to cherish it as best as he can."

.

When he got home, blending in between the crowds not so stealthily because of his injuries, he felt like he was about to collapse again. He didn't though; just used the crutches Bruce gave him and limped towards his kitchen. They had sat through numerous briefings by Fury and now he was starving. Briefings and fake alibis, the specifics of where they had been during the battle, which exact shelter, and how they had gotten the injuries they sustained. And then the briefing had strayed to the political consequences for the Avengers that none of them had any interest in, and they had dismissed themselves. Thor and Loki had left for Asgard, Bruce had packed his bag to one of the safe house Tony had bought him to cool himself down, Tony himself had caught a flight to Malibu because Pepper was there, and Clint had been on his way to his house when he dropped Steve off.

His refrigerator was empty. He sighed, disappointed but not surprised. He had been planning to go grocery shopping the day he got the Avengers alert, after all. He rummaged through his shelves instead and found an unopened box of cereal. He didn't have milk, but he also didn't have any other food and he was sure no delivery place would actually be willing to deliver some food at this point. He was in the middle of pouring the cereal with no milk into a bowl when he heard the sound of the front door opening.

He stiffened, fingers grasping for a knife on his right. He hadn't heard the sound of footsteps. He was sure it wasn't an alien, since the missile Tony had flown through the portal took care of them thoroughly, but it could be thieves taking an advantage of all the chaos to slip in and out of people's apartment. Mrs. Hugh on the first floor just reported an incident last week. She lost a flat screen tv and a box of jewelleries. Steve was in no shape to fight but he was sure he could still hold his own against cheap thugs. During times like this, he wished his shield was within reach instead of guarded under complicated layers of security in a safe deposit box in the Stark Tower.

"Steve?"

 _Natalie_.

He relaxed instantly, dropping the knife with a clatter on the counter. "In the kitchen," he answered. What was she doing here? He had tried calling her earlier but the call didn't go through and he figured that she was probably on rehearsal and had turned off her phone. So he had sent her a text, telling her that he was alright and was already heading home from the shelter, but she hadn't replied. Maybe this was the reason. She was on her way here.

The relief of seeing her was soon misplaced, replaced by the sudden awareness of the state he was in, and what it could possibly mean. It was evidence for his super-healing ability. He could feel the bruises on his face fading, and the leftover smaller wounds closing up, slowly but surely. If she was to be around—

She would surely notice.

"What the hell happened to you?"

Her eyes were wide, horrified, looking at him. He grinned weakly at her, still unsettled, still at loss of what he should be doing. He could try to convince her into leaving. He could say that he didn't want her here, not for him, not when she should be out there, dancing and living her dream. Which—to be honest, was not a lie. But Natalie was such a stubborn person—

"I had an accident when I was trying to get to the shelter, people were panicking," he replied, reciting a cover story that SHIELD had made him memorize. She recklessly dropped her bag on the floor, kicking it aside without a care, and sauntered towards him before gently cupping his face between her warm hands, mindful of the injuries there. Her right thumb brushed against a patch of unmarred skin below his eyelid. Her face was a mixture of concern and something else he couldn't read. He didn't know whether she believed him or not. He leaned in into her touch unconsciously despite of the thoughts running stray in his mind. "What are you doing here?"

"I got on a plane after our call got disconnected and you wouldn't return any of my calls," she said, raising her chin, challenging him to challenge her. "I've been trying to find my way into the city until a few hours ago when they tore down the barricades. What kind of accident did you have? Please tell me you did not try to take on an _alien_ by yourself?" There were five of them against a whole army. Give him some credit, Natalie. He was not alone.

"You shouldn't have, Nat," he said, closing his eyes at the bitterness he felt because of the concern in her eyes ( _guilty, he felt so damn guilty_ ). He thought he saw fear too. And he would never— it was a foreign look on her, the fear. He shouldn't have scared her like that. "I'm alright, and it was nothing. The alien came out of nowhere, that's all. Then they shot it away, so I'm alright." SHIELD had fabricated fake hospital and police reports to back up his story.

She looked away, blinking furiously, and for one horrible second he thought she was holding back tears. But that couldn't possibly be it, because Natalie did not cry, not ever. "Hey, Nat, hey," he took the hand that was supporting him off the counter, balanced his weight on his good leg. Put it on her cheek, gently tried to get her to look at him. Smiled softly when she did. "I'm okay, I promise. You should get back to your tour though, wouldn't want to miss it, right? If you get on the next flight I'm sure you'll still make it to the next show."

Her eyes narrowed, all trace of tears (if it had been that) nonexistent, and she navigated her way so that she was by his side, saying nothing, giving him a frosty silence. But she had never needed to, anyway. Steve understood what she was trying to do and let her help him get to the sofa. She was steady, gentle hands and soothing warmth. Steve gratefully leaned back against the pillows she had arranged, and she occupied the space beside him, watching him with a weight in her gaze.

"You're the only thing that I have, you know," Natalie said finally, so quiet he barely heard her. There was that different air again, shifting and shifting. He took a sharp intake of breath, surprised at the sudden admission. "I don't have anyone, anything else."

"Hey Nat, don't be like that, hey," he shifted closer to her, slowly because his muscles suddenly felt oddly strained and very tired. "That's not true and I'm here, I'm not going anywhere. It's going to take more than just an alien to get rid of me, Natalie, Nat."

She snorted. "Your stubbornness, Rogers," her voice sounded strange, a bit strangled. "Your goddamn stubbornness."

"You love me for it," he said, jokingly, trying to lighten the mood. But then she looked at him, and he felt as if his heart stopped, because she had never looked at him like that before, with so much _love_ and tentative hesitation that he almost had trouble breathing and for once, it had nothing to do with his crushed ribs or an asthma attack.

"I do," she said. "I do, so help me because I can't—," she faltered, and it _ached_. It hurt, in the best, worst, kind of way.

"Come here," he said, and it came out as a soft whisper. Suddenly all his worries seemed farfetched. All of it was ridiculous, because love was not logic. Love was not within reason. Love was unreasonable. He wound his arm around her, wanting to hold and comfort her, but instead she surged forward and kissed him. It was messy, frantic, desperate, but tender at the same time. He kissed her back, waving a hand through her hair. He had never seen her like this before. Granted, luckily there hadn't been any situation that required such reaction, but he had never seen her so out of poise, lacking control of her emotions. When they parted, she kept her eyes closed, biting her lower lip in a nervous gesture he didn't know she possessed. "It's okay Nat, I'm okay."

He rubbed her back in a smooth up and down motion and after a while she relaxed into his touch. "You're gonna be okay?" He asked.

"Are you kidding me?" she muttered. "Look at yourself you are—" She opened her eyes to look at his face, and stopped talking. He felt the muscles on her back tensing, and he immediately knew that something was wrong.

"Nat?"

She straightened up and grabbed his face, just the edge from almost being rough, and he nearly winced. "Your bruise," she said, poking at the one on his left cheek. "It's fading already."

"Ow Nat don't poke at it—," he said, even when his mind was whirring and his heart was beating so fast _thump thump thump_.

"We need to get you to a hospital," she snapped, standing up. "What if there's an alien complication or something we need to—"

"No," he said, because he had told himself that he would cross the bridge when it was time, and here— this was it. And he knew what he had to do now. He knew. "It's not that," he continued. "I can explain."

Disbelief was written all over her face. "The last time I checked you are definitely not a doctor and you don't have a degree in alien science," she said incredulously, borderline on sarcastic. "We need to go now."

She started to move towards the kitchen with determination, probably to retrieve his crutches and her purse, but he snatched her wrist in a firm grip. "I'm Captain America," he blurted, because Bucky had said once that Steve absolutely had no tact, and right now he was beginning to think that he was right. Seventy years in the future, seventy years too late.

She stopped, turning on her heels. "What?"

He gave her a weak but hopefully convincing smile. "I'm Captain America Nat," he said.

"We definitely have to check you out for a concussion."

"I'm serious," he said. "I am."

She pinched the bridge of her nose. "I know that you probably admire the guy or something growing up, you _Americans_ and your history books—and not to mention there's someone claiming to be him running around the city beating up aliens in a stupid costume, but we really have to go to the hospital now Steve. I promise I'll entertain your concussed delusion on our way there."

"Just hear me out," he insisted, and something must have shown on his face because she sighed and reluctantly sat back down.

"Five minutes," she warned. "And then we're going to the hospital."

He didn't think five minutes would be enough, but he would take whatever he got. He nodded and started talking. He told her about being born in Brooklyn in the 1920s. He told her about growing up sickly and poor. He could tell that she wanted to cut him off, but she refrained herself and listened. He told her about Bucky. He told her about Peggy. He told her about the war. He told her about the ice. He told her about waking up in the future. Five minutes stretched into ten. Ten stretched into fifteen minutes. Her back straightened bit by bit, eyes getting sharper. She didn't interrupt him. He kept talking. He showed her one of the smaller cuts on his calf, about his super healing, and they both watched as the wound closed itself, skin knitting with skin. She tensed. He told her that he had been lying to her all this time, that he had been leading a double life. That he worked in the Stark Industries but spent most of his time fighting as an Avenger. Most of all, he told her that he was sorry.

"I'm sorry for lying to you Nat," he said softly. He couldn't read her face, it was annoyingly blank. "I should have told you the truth but I didn't want to—," he hesitated. "The life I'm living in dangerous, I didn't want you to get caught up in it. But – it's your decision, and I should have told you," he paused and reached out for her hand. She let him take it. He squeezed it gently. "I'm really sorry. I love you. Whatever happens, I just need you to know that I love you so much."

"Are you cold?"

"Sorry?"

Her voice was void of any emotion, and he felt a pang in his heart. _This is it. She's leaving_. And he knew, deep down he knew that it was the right decision for her. After all the lies he had told.

"You're trembling," she said. "Are you cold?"

"I— yes."

His metabolism was still working against the injuries, and he hadn't had a bite to eat.

"I'll get you a blanket," she said. And then she stood up again. He listened as her bare feet padded against the floor of his apartment towards the bedroom.

It went better than expected, he thought gloomily. He should just— he should keep his distance for a while, he thought, closing his eyes. He should give her time to decide on how to proceed. He should—

When he opened his eyes again, he was staring at the barrel of a gun.

Maybe it didn't go so well, after all.

Natalie was holding the gun, pointing it against his head. Her eyes were cold, face stoic. Hair falling on her shoulder just like whenever he used to draw her on a lazy Sunday. Just as beautiful as she always was. "What game are you playing at, _Captain_?"

He couldn't hear himself think. "What?"

Her lips that had always smiled at him turned into a thin line. "What do you want with the Red Room?"

"I don't understand," he said, he was beginning to wonder if this was all a dream, that he had collapsed in the middle of New York and hadn't woken up ever since. But at the same time, his senses began to sharpen with awareness. Red Room. Red Room? Isn't that— "Nat, I don't—"

"Oh, drop the act. I'm holding a gun against your head, Captain. Do you still think that's a good idea? To _lie_? Tell me the truth," There was nothing but anger in her voice. "Did you enjoy that? _Playing me_?"

He was defenseless. There was nothing but pillows near him. She was just out of his reach, but close enough that she wouldn't miss if she decided to shoot his head. His mind was reeling. He didn't understand. Red Room—

Red Room was Russian's off-book espionage agency. What did Natalie have to do with it? Unless she—

"Natalie," he said, trying to conceal the terror in him. Terror and denial and _no no no it couldn't be_ — "I don't understand what you're talking about. Put the gun down, Nat."

"Stop _lying_ ," she snarled. "What do you want with the Red Room?"

He couldn't think of a way to disarm her without injuring her or getting shot himself, and he didn't want to hurt her. Not even the slightest bit. There must be a reasonable explanation for all of this. _There must be a damn good explanation_.

"I don't know, I swear. Come on Nat, put the gun down."

"Three."

"Don't do this, you know me. I love you. We'll work this out."

"Two."

"I don't understand Nat, please put the gun down."

"One."

"Natalie…"

Her lips curved coldly, and she was detached, emotionless as she stared right into his eyes. "Goodbye, _Captain_."

She pulled the trigger.

Nothing happened. The gun jammed. Steve moved quickly.

He pushed all his hesitation to the back of his mind and moved for the gun, twisting her wrist until her grip loosened before flinging it away to the corner of the room. Her eyes flashed dangerously and she aimed a kick to his side, the one with the deep gash. He bit back a pained scream when he couldn't avoid it, and she took advantage of that to wriggle herself out of his grip. He thought his wound was bleeding again, stitches torn. He recovered and dodged her next hit, a particular jab against his sternum. She was fast and merciless, and he didn't want to hurt her. Again and again he pushed his injured body to move, dodging and avoiding, but he was worn out and he was well aware that he was almost at the end of his capacity and she would— no.

But he couldn't deny it, not anymore. Not when she was putting all her strength to a hold that would definitely snap his neck if she succeeded. He couldn't deny it anymore: she would end him if he didn't fight back. He swallowed down the miserable helplessness in him, and started to try landing a hit.

He managed to hit her ribs with his knee, and there was a nasty cracking sound and he winced. _Nat I'm sorry_ — she staggered, but for barely even a second before she was back trying to hit him. And they were evenly matched, because it was as if they weren't fighting. It was as if they were trading blows. It was her punching his face, then it was him spraining her wrist, then it was her again hitting a spot on his neck that had him gasping and struggling to breathe, and then it was her, then him, then her, again and again.

Everything hurt, but the physical ache felt nothing compared to the pain in his heart. No. _He's not going to think about that right now._ But he did, he did. There was nothing in her that he recognized. She was not Natalie. But she was, she was— And he faltered for a second. It was all she needed. She threw a roundhouse kick, straight to the center of his chest. He was unable to keep his balance, his bad leg messing with him, before he fell backward to the coffee table with a huge crash. The table crumbled underneath him.

He almost blacked out again. But he didn't, and he reminded himself of where he was, what was happening, and who he was with—

When he looked up, the window to the fire escape was open.

She was already gone.

.

 **To be continued.**

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 **A/N:** How was it? Ha. Leave a comment? Please?

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	8. Chapter 8

**Author's note:** I already wrote this thing ¾ way and then my computer crashed and poof, it was gone. Not to mention it was a complicated chapter to write in the first place, so. Sorry about the delay. I honestly am not as satisfied with this as with the one that got deleted, but well. Thanks a lot for all the feedback last chapter, it really means a lot to me. (Ps: Shhhh I can't resist throwing him in because I'm that trash. Also, please don't be mad at me because I sort-of recreated Nat's past out of the thin air. I'm sorry. Warning: plotholes everywhere.) I haven't checked this one for mistake because I want to post this before I have to go, but I would edit it at a later date. SUPERMASSIVE THANK YOU TO IAVENGE BECAUSE WITHOUT HER I DONT THINK I WOULD BE ABLE TO FINISH THIS GUYS AND ALSO STELLARATIONS FOR LISTENING TO MY COMPLAINS. Enjoy!

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 **Chapter 8**

 **.**

 **Façade**

 **[a Mr & Mrs Smith au]**

.

 _She was just seven years old, and the world felt bitter to her senses. The memory of fire and dust was still fresh, gnawing at her and her empty stomach. She couldn't stop crying. They were coming._

 _She was huddled behind stacks of crates in the darkness of the warehouse. She bit her tongue to stop a whimper from escaping her lips. They were coming to get her, and it was all her fault. She should have paid attention to who she pickpocketed. She had been careless. Mrs. Smirnov had rules about it, and Natalia hadn't followed them correctly. Now they were coming to get her. The government was coming to get her._

 _Natalia and the other kids had heard the stories, about the children the government took. The ones who never made it back home. The ones who had disappeared without a trace. had said that it was the kind of thing that happened to kids like them, kids without a home who were left wondering along the streets at night. She always reminded them that they were lucky because she had decided to open her doors for them. That what they did, stealing and pickpocketing, were nothing compared to the favor she was doing._

 _It was Natalia's recklessness. She had known that the man looked suspicious, but she stole his wallet anyway. And now the men in suits were coming for her, and she had no way to escape._

 _She could hear the footsteps, loud in the silence. Natalia wondered if they could hear her breathing even when she was trying her best to muffle it. The footsteps stopped right in front of where she was hiding. Her breath hitched. She had her back against the wall and nowhere else to move._

 _The fact was: Natalia hadn't been recruited in the Red Room. There had been rough hands and an 'Is that her?' and_ _fear so overwhelmingly deep in her bones—_

 _All of those fade away, during the years._

 _._

She was so _fucking_ stupid.

Her heart was beating so loudly in her ears. Adrenaline thrummed in her veins and her feet padded against the concrete of the sidewalk. She tried to adjust her breathing and ignore her broken ribs. It was only her ribs, she had had way worse than what he—she was used to worse. She clenched her bleeding hand into a fist and hid it inside the pocket of the hoodie she had snatched from one of the many stores that had their front window crushed by the alien invasion. She blended in with the crowds of people who were leaving the shelters, and focused herself to _think_.

She couldn't go back to her apartment, which was also a Red Room safe house, in the risk of it being compromised. But Red Room had another place, a small basement apartment in Brooklyn (yes, the irony wasn't lost on her) that they had stopped restocking with weapons when they acquired the safe house Natasha was using as an apartment. As far as she knew, it was still a safe place and no one would guess to find her there. She could take the time to regroup, and ask for an extraction.

This was not different from any other times when she had had her cover blown (even though it was really rare and was usually followed with the snapping of the mark's neck). All she had to do was focus.

 _Focus_.

She turned away and hid herself from every camera she could find as she walked the distance to the small basement. She let herself in through the backdoor; making sure no one spotted her before doing so. The main room was barren besides from a couch and a dining table. The air was heavy with the smell of abandonment and thick dust. Obviously no one had been there for a long time. There was a safe hidden behind the ratty old kitchen cupboard, and Natasha opened it to find the mandatory Red Room burner phone along with a handgun and a box of bullets. She gripped the phone between her fingers, and watched as blood dripped from her knuckles to the dark wooden floor below. _Focus_. She had to call for an extraction. She had to.

 _And then what_?

"Black Widow," she said, as the person on the other line picked up. "Brooklyn nineteen. Code zero-sixteen." _Her cover has been blown. Agent with no exit strategies. Location and request for extraction._

"What's the situation?"

"There was a man following me," she lied even before she realized it. Why? Why was she lying— why didn't she— _say it, say it_ — _This doesn't make sense_ — "He was a federal agent."

A pause. "Did you take care of it?"

 _No_. "Do you forget who you're talking to?" She said instead, coldly. They would never send an extraction if she answered otherwise. She gripped the phone even tighter between her fingers. "Of course I have. I suspect the man was working on his own and now there's not even going to be a strand of hair left of him, is that enough?"

There was another static pause before he answered. "Affirmative. Backup will be there in fifteen hours."

The line disconnected. It left a strange ringing in her ears.

She was—

 _I'm Captain America_.

No—

She had gotten on the first plane the second Steve (Rogers, fucking Captain America)'s call had disconnected, full of concern because of what was happening in New York. Moreover his explanation had been vague, that there were alien attacks but she shouldn't worry because he was fine, and it would have all been fine and everything had she not—

Her ribs were killing her.

She let herself slump against the wall, leaning and taking as deep a breath as she could manage with the stabbing pain at her torso. _Stupid._

Of course she had heard of Captain America. The guy had been urban myth, with rumors from mouth to mouth saying he was a mysterious man with a heart of gold who had sacrificed himself for the entire world. He had led the army towards victory, so much charm and charisma and bravery that he had managed to get people to follow him without even knowing who he was. They said he was the perfect soldier, the perfect man. She had scoffed when she heard it. There was no such thing as perfection. She hadn't even believed he existed. And then a few years ago, someone appeared using his name. She figured the mantle had been passed down between generations, a name to be earned. Apparently this new Captain America had joined the highly feared American covert team called The Avengers.

The Avengers themselves were legends. No one had been able to tell the tale after meeting them. The thing was; they fought evil. They eliminated—well, she didn't know what they did with their targets, exactly—because there was never any dead body, only whispered words in the air, but the point was: they targeted people like her.

She was just too good to be found.

But then there _he_ was, in all his glory with his blue eyes and the line of his smile, battered and bruised, claiming to her that he was _the Captain America_. That he had been lying to her all along. Worse of all, that she hadn't noticed it. That she hadn't fucking noticed it. Nothing in all her researches and observations had pointed at that direction. Nothing.

She would have counted that as a side effect for his concussion – but the words had flown out of his mouth, and the more he talked, the more her heart had started to fill with ice. Then his scars, his bruises, they all had faded away just like that in front of her eyes when she knew from experience that there was no way they could heal that fast. That was when she had known that he was telling the truth.

He was Captain America, and he had been playing her all along.

She carefully limped herself to sit at the couch and closed her eyes, the gun that she had retrieved from the safe tight in her hand. But that was not true, wasn't it? Because even when she had her gun pointed at him, she could see that he honestly didn't know who she really was. No. He must have known. If he hadn't then she had screwed up, and she never screwed up this big. He must have known who she was, and was about to use her to get to the Red Room, using some psychological trick to get her off guard by his confession. What would he want with the Red Room? What would the Avengers want? The Red Room had strayed away from the Avengers' rumored path, therefore none of this made any sense.

She needed to find out. She had to bring the Intel in. She could do this, it wasn't too late. She knew Rogers' spots since there was no way he could avoid all his routines forever. She could get to him and retrieve the Intel about the Avengers. Everything could still be fixed.

Yet he had fooled her and that still screamed failure in her book.

She ignored the small part of her that was telling her that she had known all along that he had no idea that she was connected to the Red Room, that she wasn't thinking rationally, that he was honestly thinking of her as Natalie Rushman, the woman he—

She dug her nails deeper into her palm. First thing first. She had lied to the Red Room about the reason for extraction, but she still had her connections in the US, she could get a dead body of a lower level federal agent just fine, she just had to pull at some strings quickly. Obviously the Red Room would terminate her Natalie Rushman persona after that, and she would be shipped back to Russia. There would be… some unsavoury consequences to her failure, but none that she couldn't handle and none that she wasn't used to. Her Intel still would be useful though, and it would guarantee her being back in the field after at least a couple of months.

As for Natalie… it didn't matter. She had never been real, anyway.

.

 _There was a saying, a rumor about her, circulated beneath the veil of shadows in the Red Room. She remembered when she had first heard it, when the words had first reached her ears. She was just twelve, and the week before that she had just slit a man's throat for the first time. At twelve, small, graceful, and skillfully talented at everything her trainers had taught her, she had stopped dead on her tracks on her way to the barracks, because there had been three girls there, all of them her seniors, and they were talking about her._

" _Only twelve years old. She went to her first kill last week."_

"— _next candidate for the Black Widow programme. That should have been us. She's not even old enough."_

" _I heard that she had nothing when the Red Room scrapped her off the streets. I heard that she killed her entire family in a fire."_

 _A snicker. "A monster since born, huh?"_

" _Don't you hear?" One of them had said, a high pitched voice. "I heard that she's not even human."_

" _What do you mean she's not even human?"_

" _I heard that she was experimented on and now she doesn't have feelings."_

 _Laughter. "Serves her right. Of course she's not normal. What kind of normal person can be so heartless?"_

 _She had been twelve, and she remembered that she hadn't even cared because she knew they were just jealous of her. But she had stood there in the shadows and stared at her hands all the same. She hadn't killed her family in the fire, but the man had begged for his life. The knife in her hands had been sharp. The blood on her hands had been red. Yet there in the shadows, her hands were clean._

 _She remembered that she had felt no remorse._

.

There was a knock on the door, four hours later. Natasha leapt up from where she was sitting on the ratty couch and narrowed her eyes. That was too quick, even for the extraction of someone her level. The Red Room expected their agents to be able to survive for the longest time without any help and extractions are deemed to be the last way out, after death. Unless you have something that the Red Room needed. And right now she didn't have anything relevant to them.

But the knock had been the right sequence.

She hid the gun on her right side as she made her way to the door and peered through the keyhole. She could only make out a vague outline, but that was enough to recognize the person on the other side. Natasha shifted, the loaded gun stable in her right hand, and opened the door.

"Natalia," said Yelena, and the light made a reflection of Natasha on her sunglasses. Yelena's lips were drawn to a thin line but otherwise she looked terribly bored and unamused. "They sent me to kill you."

.

 _She was brittle skin and bones, and there was a little girl clinging to her arm. The little girl wasn't much younger than her, probably just around a year, and yet she was definitely breakable and more fragile than Natalia had been during that age. She followed her whenever she went and she looked at Natalia with wide, adoring eyes. There was innocence in her that the Red Room had yet scrubbed raw._

 _Natalia hated that look._

 _But the little girl was good, and it was not surprising, because if she wasn't then she would have never survived otherwise. The little girl was good enough to be sent together with Natalia on her first independent mission, a simple target eliminating mission somewhere in Prague._

" _Why won't you call me by my name?" The little girl asked as they were crouched down in front of the target's mansion, a knife clutched on tiny hands. "It's Yelena."_

" _Survive this mission then," Natalia said, bracing to climb the fence. There was no time for small talks. If she succeeded this mission, then she would be a field agent, and that was what she had been after all along. The freedom, the choice to do the mission any way she wanted rather than following a blind order from someone else. "And maybe I will."_

 _Only then, she hadn't known that it was more than that._

 _She hadn't known that it was also test, one that she had to pass in order to actually be crowned as the Black Widow. She hadn't known that the Red Room had rigged the place to blow up, that they had arranged for everything to go south once she entered the premises, and that she had to eliminate the target and escape with her life._

 _They hadn't told her that Yelena had been arranged as a casualty, thrown into the mixture just to see how Natalie would react._

 _It went like this: She killed the target and his wife, and suddenly there was a fire. She was staggering, stumbling, stumbling—_

 _And there were eyes, familiar, terrified this time, looking at her with fear, her leg trapped beneath a fallen support beam—_

 _Natalia could have escaped immediately, yet Yelena was screaming her name, sobbing and crying for help—_

 _She turned back to help._

 _They escaped, but the innocent look in Yelena's eyes was gone. They escaped, and a week later Natalia was given the title Black Widow. They escaped, and a week later—_

" _Natalia," her first handler told her, a plump woman reeking of tobacco. "I want you to meet the Winter Soldier."_

 _._

The door slammed shut behind them and Natasha raised her gun. Yelena had made absolutely no other movement indicating that she was going to follow her words, choosing instead to sit herself down on the couch and wincing in disgust at the dust flying from it, and what she had said was still ringing in Natasha's ears. They sent me to kill you. They sent me to kill you. The Red Room sent Yelena to kill her. The Red Room wanted to get rid of her.

The Red Room wanted to kill her.

Why would the Red Room want to kill her? She didn't understand. None of this made any sense. Nothing that had happened today made any _fucking_ sense. They wouldn't. They wouldn't. "You're lying, Yelena. They wouldn't."

Yelena eyed her gun but didn't bother with the nonsense of telling her to put it down. "You see," she said. "I wish I am."

Natasha repressed a snort. "And had you said was true, why aren't you glad about it? Unless of course – _you're lying_."

"No," Yelena said, her hair falling like a curtain around her face. "That was never my end game, but let's all be honest here – meaning, I already am, but we all know that had it been another way I would have been happy out of my mind to hear that they want you dead."

"Let's say that you're telling the truth," Natasha spat, finger tightening around the trigger. This gun wouldn't jam. She had already checked. Three times. "Why aren't you, then?"

Yelena looked at her as if she was ridiculous. "Because they sent me to kill you," she leveled her gaze and this – Natasha knew right away. Just like she knew right away that Rogers had been telling the truth. There was always something terribly bright in someone's gaze when they were telling the truth. It had always been there whenever Rogers told Natalie that he loved her. It had been there earlier today when Rogers was telling her of who he really was. (It had been there when he— No. Natasha was right. Rogers definitely knew about her. _She was right_. Rogers was _using_ her.) Yelena was not lying. The Red Room really had sent Yelena to kill her. No. "And we both know that means they sent me for death."

She couldn't wrap her head around this. Another thing to worry about. Another thing in the loop of endless circles. Everything seemed to crumble down at once and she had nothing to hold on to. Even Red Room, her identity, was compromised. Who was she, then? Without everything that made her who she was? Who was she without her worth?

"You can try," she said finally, voice tight and menacing. What Yelena said was also true. The Red Room had sent her for death. There was no way for Yelena to be able to kill her and survive and they both knew it.

Yelena sniffed, as if indignant. However there was a very clear air of drawn tension in her muscles, visible to Natasha. She was not as composed as she was trying to appear. "Why do you think I haven't even tried? For all I know, being the second candidate of the Black Widow programme means nothing when they send you to eliminate the first one."

"What are you doing here then? Tying up loose ends?" Natasha spat, inching her gun closer and felt almost-satisfaction at the way Yelena failed to repress a near flinch. "I'm not feeling generous today. You should have run for your life." For all the bravado the other woman was pulling, Natasha had always had an upper hand in their game. Even when Yelena had been the one with all the cards. And she was still the one with all the cards, but that had to change soon. "Why are they after me?"

She seemed to realize that, that she still had role in this, but she dropped her pretense of being unaffected and stood up. Natasha's gun followed her motions. Without all the fake-ness Yelena seemed years older and wary. Natasha thought that was a good look on her. "I'm here to bargain."

"I'm not interested in your shit, Yelena. Tell me what they want."

"Just kill me then," she said. "I have no way out otherwise."

"What way out did you plan to get? My mercy?" Natasha let out a long laugh, dry and mean. Nobody said she wasn't mean. Like she said: she wasn't feeling very generous today.

"No," Yelena said. "Your word."

"You should know that my word doesn't mean a thing."

"We both know that's not true," she said. "The Black Widow doesn't keep her word. But you do." Burning fire. Tiny hands grasping for hers. _Can I be your friend, Natalia?_ I don't need a friend.

"Fine," she said, through gritted teeth. "Talk. Don't waste my time."

"They know you're compromised. Your extraction call was a proof of that. They had me following you the second you decided to just up and go to New York, but I lost you for a while there, until you called for extraction," Yelena explained, steadily, suddenly filled with triumph, as if she thought she was already the one with the advantage. Well she was not. She was not the one with an upper hand; _Natasha was not a pawn to be played with_. _Natasha wouldn't get tricked so easily_. She wouldn't. _Natasha was the one with the upper hand_. "Your call told them that you're compromised, you even let a government agent trail you," Yelena scoffed with disgust, and it made Natasha's toes curl. She raised her gun a bit higher in warning but the other woman was undaunted. "Yet this is your lucky day, because I know how you can redeem yourself."

"Well, what is it?" Natasha snapped. A sliver of hope started to seep through the cracks, because yes— she could, she could. She could show them that she was not without power, that she was still capable at doing her job, that they would never find someone better than her because she was _the best_.

Whatever it was that Natasha had expected; it certainly wasn't the two words that would slip out from Yelena's mouth. It certainly wasn't— "Clint Barton."

"What?"

"They're going after Barton this afternoon. His family first, then him. I'm sure if you could get to them first; kill the family, prove your loyalty, and bring Barton in— they would certainly take you back into their arms."

"Why are they after Barton?"

Yelena made a mock-surprise look, "You're telling me that you don't know? After the whole time your _fiancée_ spent cozying up around Barton—"

"Stop with the bullshit," Natasha cut in, irritated. "Nothing is stopping me from pulling the goddamn trigger now."

"During the battle against the aliens," the other woman said. "A passerby took a picture of him with his phone, fighting—guess what? He was fighting as _codename Hawkeye_. But you must have figured it out, haven't you, Natalia?"

Of course, of course—

It had never clicked on her before, what Rogers had in common with the bunch of people he hung out with, how random and diverse they seemed to be, without even anything resembling the thinnest of a thread to connect them with. Now she found one. They were the Avengers. She had been deep into their operation since the very first time. They had probably also been playing her all along.

Barton never did like her. He was probably the worst liar between them all.

"What do you think? I know about all of this and I never reported it?" Natasha snarled, lying had always been her forte. "My alliance is to the Red Room, it always has been." Too bad, Yelena was also a good liar. She appraised her silently. Natasha didn't know whether she believed her or not. "What's the mission parameter?"

"Basically this random idiot guy posted the picture on his blog," Yelena deadpanned, continuing. "It was taken down only a few minutes after, but it had been enough time for the Red Room operatives to get to the channel and retrieve the photograph. We had to go through some difficult back channel to pull a complete Intel on him—but I'm sure you know that already, until we found a decent one." It wasn't possible. Natasha had looked everywhere. But then again, maybe she wasn't looking hard enough for the background of someone who lived in a farm while working as a bodyguard to Tony Stark with a part-time job at Home Depot. "A criminal record for illegal parking in Vietnam, almost nine years ago. From there, tracking everything about him became much easier. Now the Red Room wants the firsthand opportunity to bring down the Avengers. They're thinking about using the family for leverage. Possibly for him to sell Intel in exchange for his children's lives, kill his wife as an example when he doesn't follow our instructions. It should be easy for you, no? They trust you."

Could it be that Yelena knew about her current predicament? Natasha didn't think so. It wasn't possible. Yet the thought nagged at her subconscious, amongst all the pieces that were starting to turn into an even bigger mess. Why would she help her, then? Is this a trap? Given Yelena's nature, it very well could be. Yelena could definitely have a hidden motive. "What do you get from all of this?"

She tilted her head. "Your way out."

Natasha's blood ran cold. There was no way she could have possibly known— "I don't know what you're talking about."

Yelena rolled her eyes. "Oh, don't play dumb with me, Natalia. We both know you've been constructing an escape plan and a backup identity ever since you had enough freedom to do so. I want you to give it to me."

The thing was—

Natasha had started constructing the escape plan shortly after her training as Black Widow was over. It really was nothing serious at first; she just had to make sure she had a second backup plan for whenever a mission would take turn for the worst. She hadn't realized somewhere along the way it had evolved to something else, something she kept buried and hidden from the prying eyes of the Red Room. It was her side project.

It was her dirtiest little secret.

She had never thought that there would be a circumstance when she would actually be forced to use it, but at the same time she couldn't comprehend why she had felt the need to keep assembling one and hiding it from everyone. And yet—

Here she was, with the Red Room planning to kill her and no other way out.

"You seem to forget that I've always watched you," Yelena said, eyes sharp, and Natasha knew that. Somehow she just never thought that Yelena would go to such measures. While it was true Natasha had been promoted into the title of Black Widow, the outcome of the mission at the burning mansion hadn't been entirely unpleasant for Yelena either. Yelena herself quickly became one of Red Room's top espionage agent, and like what she said, as the Black Widow program's second candidate. Natasha hadn't even thought Yelena would become so _obsessed_ with her.

"What makes you think I will give it to you? Are you slipping, Yelena?" Natasha let her lips curled in a sadistic smile. "I got the information I needed, what makes you think I can't just kill you right now?"

"If you were going to kill me, you would have done it the second I finished talking," she responded, and there was the first crack at Yelena's patience, the one that Natasha had been waiting for. Yelena was the kind of person to be easily riled, and right then Natasha knew she would get the answers she truly wanted. "Yet here I am."

"Alright," Natasha said, sure about herself for the first time since this entire mess started. This she knew. This she was familiar with. Playing with the strings, watching as the puppets dance. "Let's say I don't kill you. Why would I hand you my exit strategy?"

"Because I want to live!" Yelena blurted, and there was silence so loud as the both of them were surprised by her sudden admission. Yelena's eyes were wide with disbelief and Natasha saw—

The same lost, emotional look she had seen on a little girl with blond hair. The same person just a long - long time ago. The real reason she had pushed Yelena away.

She hadn't wanted to see a reflection of herself.

It was there again, simmering on the surface, and Yelena took a deep breath before she seemingly let go of all control and all but practically yelled. Natasha had never seen her lost her composure like this, not since they were little. " _I want to live_ , Natalia. I want to know what it's like to be free, to make my own choices. They sent me to my death _twice_ already, I'm expandable to them. While you? You want to _survive_. You don't want to _live_. You can survive with them. I can't. What else is there in life for you? This is all you've ever known. This is what you were born to do. This is not who I am. _This is who you are_."

It was—

One bad decision after another. It was like watching one train-wreck after another and she was hopeless to stop it. Then why would she—

"Go to London," she was saying, and this was just a small glitch, wasn't it? She would be back in Red Room's good graces in no time. It made sense, even when it didn't. Yelena had brought the Intel to her when she was supposed to _try_ to kill her. The Red Room wouldn't accept failures on that calibre. They would dispose Yelena in no time. Meanwhile for Natasha— she was worth a lot to the Red Room. She just had to follow through with the mission now; eliminate Laura, Cooper, and Lila. It had been the Avengers' faults at the first place, playing a game they didn't understand and was not ready for. And then everything would be right again. Why couldn't she just leave Yelena to die then? She could, she—

She didn't.

She gave Yelena the instructions, on how to access her fake documents, instructions, and money that she had assembled over the years. Yelena listened on seriously, asking a question here and there. Natasha wondered idly, if she herself would end up running away, but she quickly banished the thought. Because in the end Yelena had been right: This was all she had ever known. This was what she had been born to do. _This was who she was_.

.

 _The Winter Soldier had been training her for two years._

 _She was fourteen, and she was going to her first long-term undercover work with him. She was full of excitement, like a kid on a Christmas morning, and she could barely repress her adrenaline. However she schooled her features during the briefing and in front of her handlers, standing side by side with the Soldier. The Soldier was out of his usual combat gear today. He looked starkly different with his short hair and civilian get-up. The overlarge black hoodie and blue jeans made him look young, expression torn into focus as she listened to the instructions intently. He seemed almost normal with his metal hand concealed beneath a glove. She wouldn't even believe he was the same person if it wasn't for the fact that every aspect of him still screamed deadliness._

" _Try not to seem too excited, Little Spider," the Soldier reprimanded her later, but there was no heat in his voice so she wasn't in trouble. He was loading the weapons into the back of the car._

" _Sorry," she apologized, as she threw her own undercover clothes next to where he had hidden an extra grenade. The Soldier stilled for a moment and Natalia was worried that he had realized she didn't actually mean her apology. She stopped her motions and surveyed him quickly. The Soldier had taught her everything. From killing to surviving the wilderness and everything else in between, and she didn't want to disappoint him. There was a thoughtful look on his face, as if something had suddenly crossed his mind. But it was nothing like an episode (as what their handlers had warned her about), it simply was just was, and she didn't file it as a red alarm._

" _You should pick a name," the Soldier told her instead, out of the blue._

 _Natalia frowned, shifting her weight. Whatever she had expected, it certainly wasn't this. "A name? For what?"_

" _For your undercover persona," the Soldier said, closing the trunk with his metal hand._

" _Don't we already have one?" She asked, curiously. They already had the papers and all necessary information provided by the Red Room. All they had to do was infiltrate, blend in, and retrieve the required information before eliminating the source._

 _He gave a vague shrug, but his expression turned wary. She noticed that he became on edge very easily during times like this. She couldn't explain it somehow, but there were moments when he would say or do something unlike him, something out of ordinary, and whenever she questioned him during those moments he would get uncomfortable and brush her off. Almost as if it was forbidden and something in him was giving his brain a warning signal._

" _I don't know what to pick," she said quickly, deciding to humor him. It wouldn't do to start the mission on a bad foot when this was her first fieldwork when she actually worked with him, not him merely supervising her. If there were rumors about her being heartless and deceiving, there were also rumors about how deadly, dangerous, and volatile the Winter Soldier could be._

 _The Winter Soldier took that into account. "Natasha Romanoff," he said, after a while. "It suits you."_

" _An American version of my name?" She was surprised. "Aren't we supposed to be discreet?"_

 _When he looked at her this time, she didn't recognize him at all. "The first lesson, Little Spider," he said, with a wry twist of his mouth, an almost rakish look in his eyes. "All good lies are based on truths."_

 _She nodded and burned the lesson inside her mind. She didn't tell him about the burst of fondness in her chest. Such feeling is irrelevant and should not even be felt. But she liked that name._ Natasha _. It felt right._

 _It felt_ hers _._

.

She stole an abandoned car a block away from the safe house and drove to Barton's farm. Barton had arranged for her to come over to his farm for Lila's lessons because Laura had to spend her Wednesdays working and Natasha wasn't available on any other day. Barton himself was never at home today, she could only hope he wasn't at home now. It was funny to think the last time she had gone down this exact highway she was planning to teach the little girl a new variation of ballet movements.

Now she was doing it for a whole different reason and none at all that tame. Only it didn't make sense, for Barton to invite her to his house, and to let her be alone with his children, had he been faking everything out. It didn't make sense, much like everything else that was happening.

Unless they truly didn't know—

 _No no no—_

Because then it meant Natasha had thrown away a chance to infiltrate the Avengers, it meant blue eyes, blond hair, and the slightest dimple on his cheek when he smiled hadn't lied about not knowing anything, and she would have none of that. She wouldn't.

She was in luck. There was no sign of Barton's car. She parked her own car near the garage, her usual spot, and hid her gun at the back of her jeans before slipping out of the vehicle. A few quick steps and she was knocking the front door with no time. She would need to gather them all in one room before making any kind of movement – minimalism of chaos.

The door slid open. "Natalie," said Laura, with her usual smile, long dark hair a pretty wave down her back. "I didn't know you're in the country."

Smile, charm, disarm. "I thought I could surprise you," she laughed. "Did I succeed? I know with two kids you probably have seen everything."

"Hmm," Laura said, with that same smile. "You're probably right, but I was definitely surprised."

The screen door was still between them. "Aren't you going to let me in?"

"Ah," Laura fumbled with the locks a bit. "Where's my manner? I'm sorry; I haven't slept because of all the mess in New York. I lost contact with Clint for quite a while there, you know." Natasha stepped into the parlour and closed the door behind her. "I assume that's why you're back? Because of Steve?"

Because of Sunday morning pancakes, a breathlessness she couldn't ignore, and a tightness in her chest when his call got disconnected? No. She was back because he was her asset, and she had a responsibility. "You could say that, yes," she replied. "Have you gotten into touch with him?"

"Tea?" Laura asked, walking into the kitchen. Natasha followed. "I have, yes. Thankfully he's fine. But now he's back in New York because of some urgent business with Tony. He just went out an hour ago."

"Yes, please. You know how I like it," Natasha didn't sit down. Laura smiled again before she turned the stove on to heat the kettle. "Where are Laura and Cooper? I miss them."

"Around," Laura said. Probably in the backyard. Easy route to run away had she tried anything funny. Natasha let her smile dropped. Laura opened a drawer next to her and reached a hand in. "Is Steve busy? I haven't seen him in forever. My accounting classes have been sucking the life out of me."

"Tell me, Laura," Natasha said finally, in calculation. "What kind of knife do you have in that open drawer besides you?"

Laura's back went tense. She pulled her hand out, and Natasha knew that knife. It was one she frequently used. It had a nice grip. "Well that's too bad," Natasha said. "Because I have a gun. I was kind of hoping you would have one too." She retrieved her gun from where she had hid it, underneath the thick layer of the sweatshirt. She pointed it at the other woman. "Now, what are we going to do?"

Being held at the end of a gunpoint like this, there was no fear in Laura's eyes. Instead, there was calmness. The knife was still in her hand. "This is not my first hostage situation," she said. "I know the drill. Why are you doing this?"

"Nothing you would understand," Natasha replied, evenly. "Where are Cooper and Lila? I want you to call them here."

Laura shrugged. "You're well aware I'm not going to do that. Why are you doing this, Natalie?"

"Not even when it will cost you your life?" Natasha asked.

Laura ignored her. "I really consider you as my friend. I also thought you love him – you do, don't you?"

"I don't," Natasha said, stepping closer. _She didn't_. "Everything has been a lie since the beginning. You don't know who I am."

It was frustrating, when Laura shook her head with such conviction. "If it had, you wouldn't have been friends with me, not like how you did. You wouldn't have read Cooper his bedtime story over and over again until he fell asleep. You wouldn't have bought Lila those presents on her birthday. You wouldn't have looked at him like _that_."

"I'm going to tell you something I have told someone, once, a long time ago," Laura dropped the knife from her hand with a graceful movement; unwrapping her fingers from the hilt one by one. It hit the floor with a clatter. Natasha stiffened. What was it with everyone refusing to fight her? She didn't understand. Now Laura and then— Rogers, he— " _You don't have to do this_."

You don't have to do this.

 _You don't have to do this._

Everyone kept acting like they knew her and that was unacceptable, because they didn't. No one did. _No one knew her_.

Yet why did everybody keep pretending like—

 _This is who you are._

 _You don't have to do this._

 _Don't do this, you know me. I love you. We'll work this out._

I love you. I love you.

They didn't know who she was. They didn't what she had done. Her hands shook. She quickly steadied it but it hadn't missed Laura's knowing gaze. Her throat hurt. "I have to do this, don't you understand? _I have to_." She had to. It was like a mantra, repeating itself in her head. Echoing louder and louder.

" _You don't_ ," Laura insisted, her features softening but still insistent. "You don't have to do anything. It's your choice, Natalie. It's not anyone else's. It's not too late, we can help you."

It was never her choice. Why couldn't anyone understand that? She never had any choice. Take this away from her and she would become a shell, empty, for there was nothing else under her skin, but pulling the trigger and red against her ledger. Had it been her choice—

She would have never been here in the first place, she would still be with a family she couldn't even remember, surgically removed, nothing but words on paper.

 _No no no_ —

Those were the thoughts she mustn't think, and for a moment she was terrified, indescribably so, because they would burn those thoughts away, like every other time when she thought of something she shouldn't. Because they always knew, and she was the Red Room's, she had always been. They had made sure countless time that she knew that.

Without that, she was nothing. They had made sure she knew that too.

"Natalie, are you okay?" Concerned voice, a blur in her vision. Her breathing was ragged now, uncontrollable. She couldn't lose control like this, they would know. They would know and they would end her, they would eliminate her like they had planned to do all along. And this time there would be nothing that she can do about it. This time she wouldn't be able to regain her place.

She was clutching her head, and she didn't remember when she had dropped the gun, but she had, and she should probably be worried that Laura would grab the gun and use it against her, yet the thought was nothing more than a passing one. Someone was guiding her and then she was sitting down on a chair, a cool rag pressed against her forehead.

There was a small hand tugging on her clothes. "Aunt Nat, what's wrong?"

 _Lila_.

Her eyes snapped open, she was still slouched over the table, her ribs still hurt, and her head was pounding, and she only half registered Lila standing next to her, Cooper standing by the doorway, Laura was watching her a bit warily and worriedly at the same time, yet—

Her thoughts were clearer than they had ever been.

There was no time. _There was no time_.

She forced herself to stand up, and the gun was behind Laura on the counter, but she made no move to reach for it. Her eyes darted to Laura and she wet her dry lips before she spoke. "You need to get out of here," she told the other woman sternly, even though speaking felt like swallowing broken glass. "Listen to me - get to any closest Stark facility you can," it made sense now, why her communicator never worked whenever she was in Stark buildings. It wasn't just because of his security measures. It was also because he was Iron Man. "Drive and don't stop no matter what. Do you know how to use a gun?"

There was a hard glint in Laura's eyes and she reached for the gun, smoothly taking it apart before reassembling it back with quick precise movements. Apparently she hadn't been wrong about Laura. "Good. Now go, pack up everything you need. You have two minutes to do so. I'll get the car ready."

"Natalie -"

"Look, I don't have the time to explain it. I assume Clint has told you about me already and you're trying to stall - but they wouldn't be here fast enough," at this Laura's hand tightened around the grip of the gun. – "They would get to you first."

"Well then, make time," Laura said. "They? Who's they?"

"The people who want to hurt you. The people who want your husband dead," There was no time for this. They were running out of time. She had wasted enough time already. "Go," she said. "Take my car."

Laura nodded, and there was a flash brief of hesitation. "What about you?"

 _What about her?_

Cooper was embracing Lila. She had scared them. She turned, and she observed the way Lila was burying her face against Cooper's side and the definitely nervous and stubborn look he definitely got from Laura. This was not her place. _What about her_?

She crouched in front of the both of them, not reaching out a hand. "You need to listen to your mother, okay? Do everything she says," she told them. Cooper nodded, and Natasha ignored the way Lila hugged him even tighter.

Laura packed some cash, and after Natasha told her, their passports too. Natasha told them to stay on major roads, to make sure that they were recorded by as many security cameras as possible. That was the safest option. Red Room operated under the shadows. You just had to make sure you stay under the light to be safe.

"Take the gun," Laura told her, offering her the hand gun back, when she was already behind the wheel and Cooper and Lila were safely tucked on the back seat of the car. "I think you're going to need it more than me." Natasha accepted it, for even though she didn't know what she was going to do yet, she knew that much was true. "Are you sure you're not coming?"

"No, I—" She looked back, at the now empty house. "I have some things I need to do."

Laura squeezed her palm and Natasha startled at that. It was warm. Solid. "Be safe, Natalie."

"Natalie's not my name," Natasha said, because it was something to say. Laura almost grinned.

"I figured as much," Laura retorted, and now she did smile. "Then you'll tell me later? Over lunch?"

It was cloudy today. Maybe it would rain soon. She didn't actually mind. "Brunch, the usual place."

"You got it."

She had to tie up some loose ends first.

 _._

 _She started to dance when she was sixteen._

 _The Red Room maintained the policy that their agents had to be multitalented, and they decided that she should know ballet. She loved it. It was the first thing she had loved, the thrill of it, losing herself in the momentum. One of the councils saw it, saw the way she took the little pleasure at hers. But they couldn't have it, could they?_

 _The first time she learned how to dance, was also the first time she truly knew pain._

 _It didn't stop her, either way. Somehow she never stopped to wonder why._

 _She kept dancing and dancing._

 _Until they stopped trying to take it away._

.

They came barging in, and her handler was a few steps behind, of course he was, because his life was more precious than theirs, wasn't it? They weren't shooting, because their orders were to bring the family in alive. They obviously weren't expecting her, just Hawkeye's defenseless wife and two little kids, because there were only fifteen of them. All of them highly trained, sure.

But still only fifteen of them.

Her handler looked at her, and the gun in her hand, aimed between his eyes. "You're supposed to be dead," he said, the wild panic behind his eyes, and here was the proper response of someone who knew what she was capable of, because Natasha was a weapon, honed to perfection. She had a gun and an array of knives. Even standing behind his barricade line he knew he wasn't safe.

" _Boris_ ," she said, and the wild panic turned into full-blown fear. She was setting the terms, for no agent was allowed to speak their handler's name. However, Natasha wasn't an agent anymore. Not since they decided to kill her. She was theirs no longer. "It was you, wasn't it? You persuaded the council to eliminate me, and then you sent Yelena, because you know the both of us wouldn't survive the encounter." A low laughter escaped her throat. "Too bad, Yelena had always underestimated her abilities. She thought you had sent her to die— therefore here I am, alive in the flesh and blood. And now your little project of replacing the old Black Widow programme with your own one must be delayed, hm?"

"After all," she said again, when Boris' face reddened with anger, the same color of his blood. "It's difficult to organize that from your grave, no?"

And then she started to move.

Perhaps she wouldn't escape this alive, she thought. But it didn't matter because she would bring them with her. Fighting was similar with dancing.

She was always good at the both of them.

.

 _And these were the last words that the Winter Soldier had ever said to her, when she was sixteen, right before he had disappeared forever and became a ghost story. He had looked at her, all calm and stillness like he had always been, and she had been surprised—all prepared to deflect a blow when he reached out towards her, but the blow never came, and instead he had ruffled her curly hair, the first and only time he had ever done it._

" _Natalia," he had said, with something else in his eyes that she didn't recognize, as she was staring at him in shock. It was a fractured thing, but he had looked years younger than she thought he was. He was a picture of a man who had never been. He was no one she had recognized. "You are too good to die alone."_

.

She killed Boris last.

There was a bullet in her gut, and she had been stabbed three times, but the blood coloring Laura's kitchen floor wasn't hers. None of the bodies and the brain splatters on the wall were hers either. Boris was shaking from head to toe and it was pathetic to think she had obeyed orders from this man once. She stabbed his throat, embedded it onto the wooden wall, him pressed up against it, the knife holding him in place. She watched as the blood poured down from his throat, him gagging and thrashing until he was finally limp.

She felt no remorse, and she felt no satisfaction either.

She was just… was.

Numb, you could say.

Her body ached. Her mind was thankfully blank.

She moved to the kitchen table, which amazingly stayed intact after everything it had gone through. She pushed the dead body on top of it to join the others on the floor, and pulled a chair out before she sat down. Her hands were drenched in red. She figured maybe she should go now, escape, and don't ever look back. _What for?_

There was nothing left of her.

That was how he found her— followed by a dark skinned man with wings on his back and another person in a suit of tacky red and yellow armour, sitting in a kitchen littered with dead bodies, bleeding out herself, and a shred of herself—

One that she had never wanted to admit she had, not until everything was too late, flashed hot, and then cold, but she couldn't read him—

Not the line of his lips, which she had kissed again and again, not the tip of his fingers that had trailed across her spine gently, now covered under blue gloves, holding a giant shield with a star on the middle of it. He looked ridiculous in that outfit, she thought. There was a hard line on his jaw, and a look in his eyes—

Did she ever know him, to begin with?

Was he appalled of what he was seeing?

He should. Natalie would be.

Her lips parted, to say what? His name? A name that she had loved, for the briefest of time, before it was wrenched away from her like everything else?

She had no right. He had no right either. They were never real. Both of them never were. What were they then?

What was she?

In the end, she said nothing.

The last thing she remembered was thinking: maybe this was the ending she deserved after all.

Then it all went black.

.

 **To be continued.**

.


	9. Chapter 9

**Author's note:** I'm back. I think? Sorry I did such a crappy job with this chapter, I imagined it better, I swear. Thanks to Spanglecap for helping me get through the first half of the chapter! She's incredible, you guys.

.

Natalie was—

The Black Widow. Natalia Alianova. Natasha Romanoff. And at least a couple dozens of other aliases, apparently.

He didn't even know where to start with that.

The past few days had been somewhat of a blur to him, ever since he had found himself alone in an empty apartment with broken furniture all around him. He hadn't remembered much of what had happened afterwards, just that he had contacted Tony and the others, and they had a meeting at the Stark Tower where everyone else had riled him for answers – which he had none of.

 _Who is she? What does she want?_

I don't know.

 _What is she after?_

I don't—

But then they had gotten the call from Laura and by the time they arrived at the Barton farm—

He pressed the heels of his palm harder onto his closed eyelids until he was seeing black spots. He was exhausted, tired, spent. His body ached, residual wounds closing up. He couldn't sleep and his mind wouldn't stop spinning. Questions burned inside his brain, and he uselessly tried to sort through them but he couldn't come up with a single answer.

Not when she was holding all the keys.

The figure on the hospital hadn't moved, not since she had collapsed in front of his very eyes five days ago. Her red hair, framing her pale, bruised face. Around her, the nurses were bustling and lively with their daily check-up, such a contrast to her stillness. It was bizarre, he thought. He had always associated her with motion, always moving, never static. The first time he had watched her dancing on the stage. To see her—

 _Who_?

"Is that really necessary?" He asked, the first words he had uttered in a while, realizing for the first time how dry his throat was, as the nurses handcuffed Natalie's hands to the hospital bed. They were not nurses, exactly. Not when they were trained by SHIELD.

"Ignore him," Tony said, from where he was perched on the sofa. "Are you sure that's enough? Maybe give her another one?" When Steve narrowed his eyes at him from where he was sitting, an uncomfortable chair positioned in between the door and her bed, the other man raised his hands defensively. "Hey, I quite like my appendix where it is, thank you."

Steve wouldn't—

He wouldn't blame Tony for his reaction, exactly. Not when he had seen the same scene he had witnessed. It was burned to his eyelids, haunting him in what little sleep he had. A kitchen painted red, bodies as decoration. The way her eyes had caught his, for a second, and there was—

He didn't know what it was, because not a beat later she was falling, hitting the floor, blood everywhere—hers? _Were they hers_?

He hadn't known, hadn't been able to move, frozen uselessly on the spot. He thought his hands were shaking. Were they?

It had been Sam who had darted past him, quick on his feet, screaming instructions. Tony had called for backup. Steve had followed them, blindly, the smell of flesh and blood piercing his senses, and he had been to war, to battlefields, but this—

Sam's hands were just as red, when he was pressing it onto her stomach, pressure on wounds.

There was no raising and falling of her chest at all.

.

He didn't remember much after that.

He vaguely recalled spitting out orders and a bunch of other instructions to the team and SHIELD agents, because that was what he was good at. He was good at making decisions in high-pressure situations, but apparently he was never good at making decisions with his heart.

Bucky had told him that.

He never thought it was a big problem, before this. Before he had his heart sewn in and torn apart, all over again.

He turned to face Tony, who had opted to watch Natalie's limp form warily, a tablet in his hands. Sam had been the one with him before, but something came up with his work so he had to go. He was not an official Avengers to begin with. "Any progress with her file?"

Tony was seemingly more than pleased with the distraction from the awkward and terrible silence. Steve should probably feel guilty, but he couldn't really muster the energy to. "Well. Ever since we knew a little bit more about her background, I've had Jarvis digging more into all the underground databases that we could get our hands on," he hesitated. "Cap, it's probably not going to be pretty."

Steve wasn't sure about much right now, but he believed that he needed to know. It was gnawing at him, the need to find out. Who was she? With her, seemingly an endless barrage of questions was pouring out. If she was truly someone with the Red Room- then why did she save Laura and the kids?

They had found out during the way back, when a tense Clint had called them and explained about Natalie's actions. He had told them that she saved his family's lives from the people who were coming after them. It was also the only reason why SHIELD hadn't handed her to the government yet. The only reason why they were treating her with care here, at SHIELD's New York headquarters. Steve wasn't blind. He knew that had they were given the chance, SHIELD would have thrown her into the deepest of hell just like that. He had seen the preliminary reports on the Black Widow, though he hadn't seen the one on Natalia Alianova. He knew how many SHIELD agents that Natalie, or 'Black Widow', supposedly had taken out of commission before. Revenge was probably on their minds. Yet they couldn't, because they needed answers. She was tied with the Red Room, one of the biggest black ops organizations in existence, and they were scrambling for anything to bring them down.

It was also because of the Avengers, he knew. The rest of the team had taken charge of everything when Steve was distracted with his thoughts. They had arranged with SHIELD that she was to be given priority and they also made sure the agency hadn't done anything shady by keeping an eye on all their proceedings. Steve didn't know why, not exactly, since they had disapproved of her since the beginning- when she was _Natalie the stunning, ballet dancer with a warm laughter and a weird sense of humor_ , long before she was _Natalie with blood on her hands and dead bodies and sharp, angry eyes_.

Shit. He didn't -

He knew the team was worried about him. Steve tried to fake a grin. He failed. It might have come across as a grimace instead. "This is probably the right time for a well-deserved I told you so, don't you think?"

Tony eyed him silently for a moment. "Cap, you - "

Whatever Tony was about to say was cut off when the door slid open and Hill and Clint were there. "Fury's here," Maria said, lips seemingly stuck in a disapproving thin line. Maybe it made sense, considering the mess they were in. Maria thrived on orders and systems, and this was a mess that Steve wouldn't even know where to start. "He would like to see you, Cap."

"You know that you don't have to," Tony said, and Steve was surprised with the force behind his voice, the glint behind his eyes. "Fuck Fury, there is nothing to explain."

But there was. There were a lot of things that needed to be explained. A lot of things that were his fault. He had been – tricked, lied to. He put the team in jeopardy. And it was all because he was too naïve, _too trusting_. He hadn't listened to the warnings that the others had given him.

She had lied about everything. She probably hadn't even loved him.

He blocked that particular train of thoughts, then, much like what he had been doing ever since he had found out about who she was. There was a time and place for everything, and he didn't need to think about this right now. He was vaguely aware that he was in denial, of what, he was not particularly sure, yet he couldn't help it. He brushed his hands on his jeans before he stood up. "Alright," he said. "Where is he?"

Hill motioned at him to follow her, and he did. Clint was still staring at Natalie, a furrow between his brows, as if he was trying to figure something out. Steve stopped by the door to lay a hand on his shoulder. "How are Laura and the kids?"

"They're okay. They got to the Stark facility in time. Sharon's with them," Clint gave a half-shrug, tension on the straightening of his spine. "Cap, I want to see Fury with you."

"Fury specifically said just Captain Rogers," Hill said.

Clint gave her a wink, "Since when have we ever followed the rules?"

"If you have, you probably wouldn't have gotten into this much trouble," she said. Steve tensed at that, but Hill must have noticed it because she quickly diverted the conversation with a sigh. "Suit yourself, Barton."

Fury's office was at the highest floor of the building. The man in question was standing by the glass windows when they entered the room. The hologram screens were displaying various pictures of Natalie and some writings he recognized as Russian. Steve averted his gaze.

Fury appraised them coolly, "The last thing I expected to hear was that we managed to apprehend the Black Widow. Much less that she was engaged to Captain America."

"Yeah, well," Steve said, drily. "Imagine my surprise."

"This probably wouldn't have happened if you had told us you were seeing someone."

Steve thought nothing else could rattle him. He was wrong. "You expected me to believe that you hadn't had me under surveillance all this time? That SHIELD hasn't done background check on her?" He snapped. "I admit that it must have been my fault; but don't say that you could have prevented this, because you damn well wouldn't have been able to know this was bound to happen."

"Steve," Clint said.

"Alright, Cap," Fury said, calculating. "Forget I said that. The important thing is we've got a situation, and we have to find a way to deal with it."

He was still riling with anger, but Clint's steady warning forced him to think through the situation. "And what would you like to do with this?"

The logical thing—

Amongst the things he had avoided to think about—

She was an assassin. She had done terrible things, if the Black Widow file was any indication. Steve wasn't even able to finish reading it, punched in the gut, he was. No pun intended. It would make sense to try her, fair and square, with the government. This was out of their jurisdiction, and –

But –

Her actions didn't add up.

"They confirmed the bodies at the farm to be Red Room agents," Hill added. "There is always the possibility that she was the one who led them there."

Steve almost said no, because that was not something Natalie would do. She loved Laura and the kids. She always looked forward to Lila's ballet lesson and she would take Cooper out for ice cream. But he bit his tongue, because she wasn't who he thought she was. He didn't know her, not like he thought he did. Everything might (hah, _might_. Wasn't that a clear indication of how far in denial he was?) have been a part of her ruse this entire time.

He still couldn't figure out why, though. Why him? Why –

"She told Laura they were after me," Clint said, and they all looked at him. "It could be because of my identity, although I find it unlikely that they would take an interest in me. Not the first time though, I guess."

"She might be lying," Fury said. "She's good enough to do so. It could have been a mission gone wrong and they were all after her."

"Except there is no advantage for her to lie," Steve said, mind reeling. "She could have just as easily – I don't know. Why was she even there in the first place?"

"Steve's right," Clint added. "There was no angle that would benefit her. It didn't make any sense."

Hill's tablet beeped. She raised an eyebrow as her fingers swiped the screen. "Why don't we ask her ourselves?" She looked up at the others. "She just woke up."

 _She just woke up._ Those words spun inside his mind, tilting and tilting and he didn't think anything made sense, not anymore. He needed to get out of there. He needed to see for himself, that she was no longer a mere body on white sheets, he needed to—

He needed to see if this was all real.

"At least we'll be getting some answers now. And you," Fury said, looking at Steve firmly. "Perhaps it's best if you stay out of this." Steve didn't even register that in his mind, not really. He just knew that he had to see, had to check, had to make her stare into his eyes and tell him that they got it all wrong, that there was no way, that _the trigger I pulled meant nothing, baby_ , _it was all wrong and we could all go back to Brooklyn, to the apartment with creaking stairs and the brownies I burned because I wouldn't listen to you when you warned me about the oven_.

He had to know.

Perhaps that was why, exactly, he had rushed out of the door without paying attention that Clint wasn't behind him, that the other man had pulled Fury aside with a firm twist on his mouth.

"Sir," Clint said. "I have a proposition to make."

.

He had read the reports. The news, the rumors that had been written and compiled into a thick file with her name written on it. It still hadn't prepared him for what he was seeing.

He didn't know what he was hoping for, really.

It just felt like all the breath was punched from his lungs, when he met her eyes. Her eyes, they were cold and detached and no one he recognized. She was propped up on the bed, red hair framing her face, looking ridiculously well composed for someone who was just almost shot to death not too long ago. There were four armed guards in the room and it almost made him snap, but then he remembered that she was dangerous. That she was not a force to be reckoned with. He swallowed.

She had turned her head the second he entered the room, but there was nothing in her demeanour aside from clinical detachment when she met his gaze. There was no—

He couldn't read her. There was nothing he recognized.

It was all true—

He opened his mouth, to say—

He didn't know. Something. Anything. There had been so many questions in his head, but in the end the only question that could slip out of his dry lips was— "Why?" Why all the lies? Why everything? Why _him_? He didn't think he would get an answer, yet she tilted her head, as if she was considering him.

All in all, when her lips curved into a tight, mean smile, and her eyes turned cold, he almost wished for no answer at all. She leaned forward a little, as much as her restraints would allow and he wondered if they were digging into her skin, but she was not giving anything away, no indication of pain or disturbance to her composure. Her words were said with knife like precision, and he knew they would be burned to his memory. He wondered if it was all by design. "Wouldn't you like to know?"

That was it, who she was, summed up in one title: _A deadly stranger._

.

He stayed away from her since then.

He did the only thing that made sense, he supposed.

He pretended nothing happened.

It wasn't that he was back with all the denial, no. Rather it was because there was nothing else for him to do. Nothing he could do. He was of no use, he had told SHIELD and the team everything he knew already and now here he was, left with the dust and smoke and nothing else.

So he went home.

.

"What did I miss?"

Steve pushed open the door into his apartment, phone pressed to his ear.

"Nothing much, Sam."

"She gonna be okay?"

"Yeah," he said, wincing when he turned on the light and saw the state of the room. "They think so."

"Did she say anything yet?"

"No," she refused to say anything else after that one sentence she had said to him, and he was - it crossed his mind a little, what SHIELD's interrogation technique would be, but the rest of the team was - they were there. Why was he still worrying about all this? About her? He sighed. "Why don't you say it, Sam? It might be better to hear it for you."

"Say what?"

"What everyone seems to be thinking about, how I made a mistake, how this - " he laughed, he couldn't seem to help it. Everything was just so ridiculous right now. "This was all my fault. How could I be so blind, right?"

Sam didn't say anything for a while. "Steve," he said finally. "Let me ask you one thing: has anyone said them to you yet?"

"Fury did, sort of," Steve replied drily.

Sam laughed. "Well, he's an ass. But haven't you noticed that nobody else did? I haven't met her before, so I know that I can't say much about this, but the others - Steve, they have. And at the end they must have thought she's worth it, somehow, because they wouldn't have let her in otherwise." Steve opened his mouth but Sam continued before he could say anything. "You have good in you, Rogers. And that good always sees through people, so - maybe, there was something that you saw, because this sure as hell is not your fault, get it? She saved Barton's family, that has to count for something."

The team tried to keep him in the loop, but there, from inside his suffocating empty apartment, he couldn't bring himself to care. It was like after the ice all over again, the holowness inside of him that seemed to spread to the tip of his fingers, seeping into his veins. His living room was still a wreck that needed to be fixed, and for the first week he had this weird hesitation to enter his bedroom. He had to, eventually. He had to pick up his things and move them to the guest bedroom. He couldn't live off from his dirty laundry forever. He did it quickly, turning a blind eye to any leftover signs of her. It was hard, because she was everywhere. She was in the hoodie that was draped on the bed, the -

The musicbox in the slight crooked corner of his drawer.

He froze.

He had bought that for her birthday and -

He reached out to graze his fingers on its rounded surface. He hadn't seen it ever since. He thought she kept it at her place, but if it was here now - she must have been carrying it around. He opened the music box, out of reflex and wonder, for no reason at all. To torture himself, perhaps. To rub something in his own face without knowing exactly what.

He didn't -

He didn't expect what he found.

What were inside that music box were - her engagement ring (his tucked away in his wallet), a ticket to the empire state building where they went to on a date early in their relationship, and a sketch of her that he had doodled on a napkin distractedly, one he hadn't even thought twice about (he hadn't even thought she had cared, they had been sitting in a 24 hours diner with her having serious conversation on the phone with her ballet agency and he had picked up the pen because he was bored) - they were mementos, tokens from their relationship that she kept and treasured. His throat clogged up. She wouldn't -

She wouldn't do that if everything had been entirely a lie, would she?

He wondered then, about the truth she was telling. Had there been any? He knew there had, he just - he wasn't sure how much. He sat on the bed, legs giving up, staring distractedly at the spinning circle on the open music box.

 _I didn't really have anything, anyone, before this. Before you._ The way she would withdraw at times but more open at other moments, how sometimes her words seemed too sweet and too impossible to be real to him contrasting with how sometimes she gave bitter truths - things that didn't even have any sweet words in it but they were colored with clear affection. He thought now that he put things in perspective, he could see how what he had usually brushed off as what she had told him she labeled as "relationship insecurities", what he had always tried to ease off and comfort slowly, they were someone else bleeding through her persona. It was her, whoever she was.

It was what had made things more complicated. What made them difficult to begin with. Where did the lies end and the truth begin?

The truth was -

Before her, he had forgotten how to come home from a never ending war.

.

"I knew you would be back," Tony said, self-satisfied. "We've been waiting."

"Is that why you're here?" Steve said. "Not because Jarvis has been monitoring me all week and you rushed off here when he alerted you?"

Tony shrugged. The lights in the SHIELD corridor were dim because it was the hallway that was specifically designed to threaten prisoners. Steve banished the thought as soon as it arrived. "I created Jarvis. Big deal. Don't worry, they haven't managed to get anything out of her. We've been watching. You're just in time, Barton's about to give it a go."

Steve understood, sort of. Why they were all still there with no indication of anger and frustration - he knew it was all for his sake, but not just that. It was because she helped one of theirs, and it wasn't the sort of thing they could forget. They were family, after all. Steve reached out to squeeze Tony's shoulder just before they enter the observation room. Tony nodded at him, understanding what he was trying to say.

Steve wished everything was that simple.

The observation room had a one way mirror where they could observe the interrogation room, and right now, Clint had just walked in into the other room, where she had her wrists bound together on the table, expression bored and impassive. She was sitting up already, so that was supposed to be a good sign; her wounds were healing. Color had returned to her cheeks, no longer white and lifeless, and the SHIELD jumpsuit had hidden the bruises and wounds from view. She looked alive. He felt relief at that, something he couldn't help, but he was in the room with Fury, Tony, and Hill, so he controlled his expression because he knew they were watching him. He let his fingertips dug into his palm though, in his pocket.

In the other room, Clint dropped himself on the chair in front of her leisurely. Steve watched as her gaze turned wary of Clint; the second when she realized that he would be different from the others they had sent before.

"Hello," Clint said, limbs loose and relaxed. "How are you doing?"

She raised an eyebrow at him.

Clint waved a hand. "Right. I was never the one to initiate conversation between us. You can stop all the glaring. Let's cut to the chase, shall we? Why did you save my family? Why didn't you kill Rogers when you had the chance?" He leaned back slightly. "Is there something redeemable in you, Black Widow?"

She said nothing, still impassive as ever.

"Laura and the kids said hi, and they even sent you some drawings, but," Clint paused, giving her a look. He was good at this. "You know how the government is. They worry about secret messages and what-nots. Ridiculous, right? Since you saved their lives and everything."

She laughed then, sharply. "Maybe I wanted to spare them only to kill them myself," she said. "How would you know?"

Steve winced, felt blisters in his heart. It was cruel, what she said. But Clint was unfazed, still staring at her steadily. "Why?" He asked again, as if she had never spoken.

And it was here—

Here—

Steve swallowed. There was a flash of something in her eyes, and it was _her,_ it was Natalie, the same guarded look she sometimes had whenever he moved too close without thinking at the early stages of their relationship, apprehension and wariness. Like a deer in the headlights. Something occasionally filled with fear and doubts. "I don't know," she finally said wearily. "Is that what you wanted to hear?"

Clint nodded, apparently satisfied. Steve was surprised. He thought Clint would have tried to dig up more answers from her. But he understood why. Because he believed her. He did. She was telling the truth. "I remember you now. Budapest, seven years ago. I had spent two months dismantling the organization and it was time for me to bring the boss in. But then I walked into his hotel room and he was already dead. One bullet between his eyes, a signature kill. I saw you, in a coffee shop two blocks away. Something about you was off, that's why I remember you. Maybe it was the blond hair."

Her lips twitched, not quite amusement, but close. It was weird, how Steve still recognized these things when she was not who she had said she was. "You were the moron who made my job ten times easier? Sloppy work."

Clint snorted and grinned. "I was very young."

She shrugged; a raise and fall of one shoulder. "So was I."

"Here's the thing, though, Natalia," Clint said, and the whole atmosphere shifted again. "You have a very specific set of skills and we have a proposition for you. Would you like to hear us out?"

On the other side, Steve turned to Fury. "What is this?" He demanded, and as much as he tried to hide his worry, he knew he was not fooling anyone. "What proposition?"

"Calm down Captain," Fury said coolly. "It was all Barton's idea."

"What idea?" He was tired of this, tired of everyone keeping secrets and not telling him anything.

Fury sighed. "He vouched for her. He said – he could make her switch sides. And you better hope he succeeds. If he doesn't, she's going to face a lot of trials."

"Let me get this straight," Natalie deadpanned to Clint. "You want me to work for SHIELD?"

"Yes," Clint said steadily. "Let's face it. You're the best in the field and your skills, they would be an asset. SHIELD would like to offer this opportunity for you to wipe your slate clean."

"Wipe my slate clean," she repeated, tonelessly. "Just like that."

"I don't need to tell you what's going to happen if you refuse it," Clint said, and it wasn't a threat. He was just merely stating the elephant in the room. "I've done everything I could. Everything's up to you now. Just sign the papers when the lawyers come and you're free to go."

She was staring at him as if he was something she couldn't figure out. Clint stood up to leave, giving her a nod as he did so. "Think about it."

"You said you've done everything you could," she called out, blurted, really, just when Clint was about to exit the room. Clint turned around and Steve could see the hesitancy and curiosity in her eyes. He wondered if the others could see it too. "Why?"

Clint flashed a grin, wide and reckless and the most honest Steve had ever seen him gave to her even when she had been Natalie. "I owe you a debt, don't I?"

.

He was here again, in the end.

He had slipped away from the others, although he wouldn't delude himself to think the others hadn't noticed. Yet his feet had seemed to be on auto pilot, and he found himself drawn to where he knew he had to be. No matter how it was against everything that he was supposed to do.

"Move," he said, to the guards in front of her cell. He wasn't asking, not really.

The two guards stared at each other. "Captain, we have explicit orders not to—"

"I'm not going to ask you again," Steve said briskly, and perhaps it was the tightening of his jaw that convinced them to let him pass. He stepped into the room, and she seemingly hadn't even moved, still sitting with the exact same position like she had been hours ago, chained to the table. She looked up at him, and he couldn't read her. It bothered him.

Her lips curled, and he knew whatever was about to slip out of her lips would not be pleasant. "Why, Rogers. Here you are again. Look at you, standing there as if you have no blame. Oh, poor you, are you hurt? As if all the lies were mine, as if you have been so goddamn truthful all this time, _hm_?"

"The first time I saw you," he said, and why was he saying this? She had tricked him, used him, and yet here he was, and he didn't even understand the chain of events that had led them here. Had he done enough wrong things in a lifetime to deserve this? Yes. Yes he had. Hadn't he? Like she said, he had done the same thing to her. "I thought that you looked like Christmas morning."

Something flashed in her eyes, and then it was gone, so quickly, like it had never been there. But it had been there, and he knew he had seen _her_. It made his heart shuttered. It made what she said next seemed to be a moot point. Still, it pierced through his heart no matter how he tried hard to ignore it. She cocked her head left, a mocking gesture. "Isn't it pathetic, Rogers, to come here and beg for a lie?"

Yet it was too late for her to try to salvage anything. He had seen what he was looking for. She knew that. He got the answers he needed.

"Yeah," he said softly, leaning back on the wall, hearing the footsteps of rushing SHIELD agents getting closer to the room. "I thought so."

"You know nothing," she hissed, but he thought he saw her eyes getting misty. It might have been the trick of the light. It might have been her. It might have been the exhaustion inside of him.

But in the end, it was them.

Him and her.

He offered her a grim smile, at that last second before the door barged open. "Sign the papers, will you?"

.

They banned him from her cell, officially. But it didn't matter, because he had said what he needed to say. He had known what he needed to know.

It didn't matter, because she was gone the next day.

Tony whistled, something akin to admiration in his eyes. "Can you believe it? She was shot and stabbed and all the lawyer forgot to do was to take the pen back – can you believe that? She escaped from a highly secured government facility with _nothing but a pen_. Didn't even trigger an alarm, nothing."

"Well, you escaped a terrorist nest by building yourself an exploding suit," Bruce pointed out, solemnly.

"Fury's going to be so pissed," Clint said, but there was amusement in his tone.

The alarm was blaring and Steve leaned back on the wall, tipping his head back. All around them everyone was frantic, their weapons on guard, but he knew it was futile. They wouldn't be able to find her unless she wanted them to.

Natalie never did anything halfway, after all.

It had been a long couple of weeks.

.

 **To be continued.**

 **.**

 **Disclaimer:** The Christmas line is a reference to the Mr & Mrs Smith movie, requested by the lovely iavenge a long time ago


	10. Chapter 10

**Author's notes:** A couple of people kindly pointed out a mistake I made in the last chapter, thank you so much! I really appreciate the help:) Enjoy!

.

The weather was cold today. The wind bit into her skin and the snow underneath her feet was red.

Red Room, gone at last.

She mindlessly navigated herself around the body on the ground, tucking her gun back into her coat. Her shoes made a crunching noise when it hit the ground. It had taken her stupidly long to get to this point; two years and five months of traveling around Europe to dismantle the organization. The organization was not supposed to exist anyway. The Russian government would not admit it even when the safety of the country was threatened.

And she was just about to burn the main base down.

"Everything done?"

He could be eerily quiet whenever he wanted to but today he had made noises to alert her that he was coming. She appreciated it. The rush of adrenaline was still in her veins and she would have shot him if he hadn't. She didn't glance at him.

"Yes," she said.

"On behalf of the American government," Barton joked, walking to stand next to her. "We declare you a free woman."

Of course. She couldn't have done it by herself.

It had been surprising when Nick Fury himself was standing outside her cell, giving her a pointed look. _How do you feel about revenge?-_ he had said, when she was just about to escape with the pen between her fingers, the lawyer unconscious on her cell floor.

Long story short: here she was.

What they had needed her to do, apparently, was for her to mark up and catalogue every base and agents of the Red Room, alerting them whenever she found their hidden ones. Infiltrate some and destroy some. It was the balance of things, she supposed.

She palmed the detonator in her hand. It seemed that this moment should be monumental, somehow. Yet all she could muster was apathy and she didn't understand why.

"What are you waiting for?" Barton asked, hands in his pocket. "Blow the shit up."

She pressed the button. The building exploded.

They stood there for a while, watching the building burn in the distance. The authorities would be there soon, so they disappeared into the woods to the direction of Barton's rental van after the smoke turned thick and black, spiralling to the sky.

They drove to the direction of the city, stopping at the fourth motel they found. The rooms were small and dingy but it didn't matter, they were used to worse. They met up in her room first, as usual.

"Do you have the documents?" She eyed him, hanging her coat on the back of the creaky chair.

"Check my bag," he said, sitting cross-legged on the bed and flipping through the TV channels and wincing at the terribleness of the soap operas.

She rummaged through the weapons in his bag impatiently, not stopping until she found the brown envelope she was looking for.

Her hands were shaking.

This was it: a free life.

"Natasha Romanoff," Barton said, and she didn't realize the TV was off and he was watching her. "Nice name."

She didn't know how to respond to that, so she shrugged. The envelope in her hand had just that, what Fury, SHIELD, and the American government promised her. A new identity, a clean slate, a name of her choice. Her past behind her: just like that.

"I like the name," she told him, and it still threw her off the loop sometimes, his presence. She knew that he was always there because he was her contact with SHIELD, but he was probably the first person she had ever been herself with. It was weird.

"It's a good name," he said. It surprised her that he was sincere, although he had never been anything but, now that she was no longer pretending to be someone else, no matter that her real self was a murderer and a liar. "What's your plan now?"

She sat down on the chair, the envelope unopened on her lap, between her fingers. The funny thing was, she didn't know what she was going to do. She had dreamed of this, wished it, and yet now the moment was here and she was just - "See the world," she said, mimicking what Fury had said to her. "Not be a fugitive for once."

He snorted, "You know he said the exact same words to me when I joined SHIELD. He needs to get more creative with his script."

She lifted an eyebrow at that. "Think he got more assassins on the way?"

"Nah," he waved at her lazily and grinned. "No one as good as us."

"Yeah," she echoed. "Probably."

"You know that my offer still stands," Barton said, standing up to check for the minibar. It was not often that motels they rented had minibars. He would always check for one, though. It was like a routine clockwork that she could predict by now, after two years of working together. She wondered if he realized it. Now though, she knew he was doing it out of awkwardness. "Come back with me to the states; take some time to stay at our place while you regroup. The family misses you."

She curled her fingers and pressed them to her lips. It was the third time he had offered it to her. She didn't know why, but she thought, perhaps, that he felt like he owed her a debt he could never repay because she saved his family. Did he know, she wondered, that he too gave her something he could never repay? This new chance, _it was_. _It was_. "You don't have to," she said. "You don't owe me anything."

He looked at her solemnly, with understanding. "I damn well know I don't owe you, not anymore, at least. But I do owe Laura everything and she's going to kill me if I fail to convince you. She doesn't let go of her friends easily."

She blinked at him. She was stunned. No one had ever -

Considered her as a friend.

He sighed, offering her another grin. "At least drop by, okay? Use the night to sleep on it. I'm going to take the second flight tomorrow."

She nodded, and with a goodnight he was off to his room next door, bag on his shoulder.

She took a long hot shower, then, before she changed her clothes and curled herself under the scratchy blanket. She was exhausted. She hadn't stopped moving for three weeks, agitated and wide alert, obsessing over every little inch of her plan. It had been all or nothing yet now that everything was over and done, she couldn't sleep a wink.

It was a new feeling for her, being free. For the first time in her life she had nothing to do, nowhere to go, no one pulling at her strings. It felt _amazing_. She could go and take off to Australia; she had always wanted to see the Sydney opera house on her own time, or she could go to Egypt, or even she could just rent a place in Paris and find a job in a coffee shop somewhere. There was no rush, no deadlines, nothing to worry about except for what she wanted.

She could even go back to America, if she wanted to.

She had always liked how everybody minded their own business there, the endless opportunities it could offer her.

But -

She knew fully well why that could never happen, right?

Still, she reasoned to herself. America was a big country. And the off chance of her - bumping into -

 _God_ , she hadn't thought of him for quite a while there. Even though it was mostly by design; she had been occupying her mind with a lot of things just so her mind wouldn't wander to - .

Fine.

 _Fine_. One last time, she convinced, indulging herself to the train of thoughts. Today was a day for endings. Tomorrow she would truly start anew.

She couldn't go back to America _because_ , she thought, maybe a bit childishly, _well_. _His name is literally Captain America_. _Hah_.

The last time she saw him was not that long ago, actually. Just a month. He had been on the television for an Avengers coverage and she had stopped on her way out of the bar because - she recognized the slope of that right shoulder and the grace of his movement. The eye catching tight costume helped, a bit. And oh, the blazing letters spelling Captain America on the screen helped her too. There had been another alien attack in London and of course, they just had to barge in straight into the core of the problem. Ever since that first alien attack in New York, the one where everything had spiraled down for her, the Avengers had gone public, no longer merely operating as a covert group. They were starting a trend - one that everyone called a superhero fever. Natasha - _Natasha, her name was officially Natasha now_ \- thought it was ridiculous and terribly useless.

Barton and her - they never talked about the Avengers. Or. Steve. There, she said it. They never talked about Rogers. She had a feeling that even though Barton had forgiven her for a lot of things, what had happened between her and Rogers was another thing entirely.

Funny, hilarious. How it had gone down between them. They had been piling one lie after the other without knowing that the other person was lying too. Look at the wreck it had caused, her with a bullet in her gut and him with -

The first time I saw you, I thought you looked like Christmas morning.

No matter, it was all over. She would never see him again, and that - _was_. That particular bit of her life was history. Like everything else.

But - Laura. She would admit that she did want to see Laura, Lila, and Cooper. Barton had been bringing her care packages and letters and drawings every time he could, and what he had said, that Laura considered her as a friend - it felt nice.

She glowered at herself. This was silly. This hesitation of hers was ridiculous. _You're free now_ , she reminded herself. She could just do this little thing for herself. She would just drop by and - stay for a couple of days, she could do that. Just to - tell Laura that this was it, that she appreciated all that the Barton family had done for her, but it would be for the best for everyone if she just stayed out of their way from then on.

A quick in and out, right? No need to think about breathless laughter and a kiss to the back of her neck. It was a new start for her.

 _No time for such petty thoughts._

.

"Oh my god I missed you. I'm so glad you're alright."

The Barton family had moved away after the incident that had happened at their farm, and now they lived in a small suburban neighbourhood just outside of New York. Natasha lifted a hand to pat Laura's back stiffly; the woman had hugged her the second she walked through the front door and it took her by surprise.

"Honey," Barton said, snickering. "You might want to let go now."

"Right," Laura said, laughing quietly before letting go. She was still the same, and Natasha didn't know why she had expected her to be different, but she had. "You must be tired. I'm sorry the kids are asleep, they would have wanted to stay awake and greet you but, you know." She glared at Barton, who grinned at his wife. "Someone had to keep the secrecy bullshit around the plane schedule."

"That's quite alright," Natasha replied, hanging her coat on the coat hanger by the front door.

"Are you hungry? You must be, or perhaps do you want some tea? Coffee?"

"Coffee would be great," she answered again, taking in the layout of the house. From the outside it hadn't looked big, but from the inside she could see how it was spacious enough to fit the small family, blending in into the neighbourhood to avoid suspicions. Hiding in plain sight. "Thanks."

"Come on," Barton was behind her, quietly reaching for her single mostly empty suitcase. She had gotten rid of her weapons before they caught the plane, after all, and she didn't have anything much other than a couple of pants and some clothes she could mix and match easily. "Let me set you up in the spare room, yeah?"

She let him take her suitcase and disappear upstairs, choosing to follow Laura to the small kitchen on the left of their hallway. "How did you convince Barton not to set you up in a cabin in a mountain somewhere?"

"I threatened to leave him forever and never cook him any of his favorite pasta," Laura deadpanned, turning on the water on the stove, and Natasha couldn't stifle a small smile. "There you go, finally. A smile."

Natasha startled a bit at that. Now that someone pointed it out, she realized that she couldn't remember the last time she did without faking one. She shrugged awkwardly, sitting on an empty stool near the counter. It hadn't been something important before.

"We decided a change of scenery would be great for the kids," Laura said, dumping a couple spoonful of black coffee powder into the boiling water. "And it's closer to my new workplace; which is nice. Oh, have I mentioned the underground bunker?"

Well. "That's reasonable," she said. "It's quite difficult to take cover in truly dire situations around here. I noticed there aren't many trees outside to distract from aerial attacks."

Laura stared at her with disbelief. "I should have known you and him would click," she accused lightly. "And here I thought you were supposed to back me up on this."

That was not how she would describe it. "Listen, Laura, I came by to tell you that I -," she pressed her fingertips to the surface of the kitchen table, a bit nervous for some reason she didn't know, was this a new habit of hers? But this needed to be said, no matter how awkward she felt about it. "Thank you. For everything. What you both have done for me, it's something that I could never repay. But I'm me, and let's face it, having my presence wouldn't exactly be the greatest influence. I think," she added, after a slight pause. "I shouldn't -"

"If you say something along the line of how you shouldn't be around anymore, that's just a load of crap."

It wasn't Laura who had said that. Natasha swore she hadn't even heard him coming down the stairs. Barton was leaning against the wall separating the hallway and the kitchen, staring at her intensely, a scowl on his face.

Natasha opened her mouth to protest, she didn't understand why he was upset, he should know better than anyone, but Barton didn't give her the chance. "Look, Tasha. I didn't help you just because we owed you. I helped you because everything that happened to you wasn't your fault, they brainwashed you for years, and yet you were there, trying to earn your freedom. Fury and I knew that you could have gone awol anytime, walked away from everything, yet you didn't, and every month you kept trying to prove yourself, prove us wrong. So don't give us that bullshit over bad influence. If you truly want to do this, start a new life, then do it right." He gritted his jaw. "There's no use of walking away from people who care about you."

Then he left, stomping on the stairs a bit obnoxiously when he had the full ability to be silent, leaving her speechless and staring at the empty spot he previously occupied.

That was new. She didn't know what to make of it.

"Yeah," Laura said, softly, moving to lay a hand on top of hers on the counter, squeezing lightly just the once. Natasha looked up. The brunette was smiling. "He does that sometimes, Tasha."

They called her Tasha.

.

So she stayed.

At least for a while.

Barton and Laura didn't have many relatives, apparently, so the kids were happy that she was there. Cooper went on and on about all the science projects he had done, the ones that Natasha had memorized from his letters, but she listened to him intently again anyway, occasionally commenting whenever she could, and Lila had taken more serious ballet courses, showing her complicated movements that Natasha applauded her for. The kids didn't seem to take the two years she had spent away into account; she wondered what Laura and Barton had told them.

Either way, after Barton left to 'work', and the kids left for school, Laura asked her what she wanted to do, because she was off today. An outing with a friend, one that she didn't have to pretend to be somebody else. There were actually a couple of places that she wanted to visit. But they had been places she went to several times with Rogers, and that was a topic that she knew was bound to come up anytime now, and she had no interest in speeding it up.

Apparently Laura had another thing in her mind.

"He lives in DC now," Laura said, out of the blue, on their way to the nearest Starbucks. Natasha was switching the radio stations back and forth as Laura drove. "Got a new position in SHIELD. Barely came by to New York if not for Avengers business."

"Are you allowed to tell me this?" Natasha was – she didn't want to know. She didn't need to know. It had nothing to do with her. It really didn't.

"It would come up one way or the other," Laura replied. "Of course, the rest of the team, him included, and a lot of people who don't have Fury's-need-to-know, I guess, still think you escaped on your own and disappeared that day."

"Good," she said, and she meant it. "I'm not sure why you're telling me this, Laura. It has nothing to do with me. But it's – good, I'm glad they still think that about me." I'm glad he still thinks I'm -

Laura pursed her lips in that way that told her she had something else in mind.

"Spill," Natasha sighed.

Laura laughed. "You do know me."

"It's my job," she replied, changing the radio station once again when Jazz flew out of the speakers. "Now tell me."

"Clint said it's stupid of me, but Tasha, I think they should know."

"No," Natasha snapped. That was never going to happen.

"Okay," Laura said. "Okay. It's up to you. I just think that they're good people, and they would not judge you about anything. They too have to redeem themselves for things they did."

Natasha said nothing. That was obviously a lie. What would Captain America possibly have done in his life that could match what she did?

Nothing.

That moment aside, the day was pleasant and Natasha had fun. They went shopping, because she needed new clothes, and Natasha got some toys for Lila and Cooper. Just - no one had warned her about their hospitality. (That being said, she knew no one, so.) Apparently Laura and Clint (The Barton thing was getting ridiculous, he had said, over dinner on her second day stay) were terribly good at making people feel at ease when they wanted. Her stay stretched into a week, and then two, and -

"How long are you planning to keep me here?"

"I'm thinking that I should get a dog," Clint said, legs on the coffee table, ignoring her.

"To take care of you?" Natasha quipped. "Since you have zero capability to not be a walking human disaster. But oh wait, that would be dangerous for the dog."

"Touché," he said, drily. "And no one's keeping you here, you're free to leave whenever you want. Although there's Lila's ballet thing in a couple of weeks, and Cooper's soccer game a couple of weeks after that, and I'm sure they would want their favorite - their word, not mine - aunt to attend."

She glared.

It wasn't that she didn't enjoy her stay - the problem was: she did. But she refused to feel, like an intruder, somehow, so she rented a one bedroom condo in the city that had a monthly based lease. She would just stay until Cooper's soccer match, and hadn't she herself wanted to enjoy America for a while? Now that she didn't have to worry about - because he was not here, she could just use this couple of months to do just that before she took off and left the country for real.

Natasha. Natasha. Natasha.

Natasha had always liked New York.

.

She blew her money on movie tickets.

Not all of it, because she did need to still have a roof on her head and food in her stomach, but enough money that her previous self would have cringed at the wastefulness.

She went in and out of movie theaters, uncaring over the hours of the day, watching everything she could. She found out that she was easily amused by the inaccuracy in spy movies, and that she hated sappy romance dramas. She absolutely loved slice of life movies and, well, the science fiction ones weren't bad either.

After that, she ventured into music, and she discovered that she didn't have any particular taste on it, just the songs which sounded right to her ears.

The books though.

She was picky about books.

She had never been an avid reader before, but having all the time in the world was turning her into one. She started with the classics, and she knew she was supposed to love those, but - sorry. She was easily bored. Yes, they were challenging and unique, but they resembled the reading materials the Red Room had given to her when she was young far too much for them to be a source of enjoyment.

She made a library card, just because she could, and borrowed three books at once every couple of days.

By her fifth visit she made small talk with the front desk lady, and -

She hadn't planned it. She swore she hadn't.

But she got a job.

"So," Laura said, grinning too happily as they stood on the bleachers, cheering at Cooper who - well, his team sucked, he was going to lose, but the kid himself was not bad. It was about to rain and Lila was tugging her jeans in excitement. Clint was somewhere buying hotdogs. "You're staying, then?"

.

The downfall though, the library branch with the open spot was a bit too close to the Stark tower for her liking. She ended up always taking the long route, because she had a feeling Stark would be that guy with surveillance cameras, but she was not protesting anyway, she had nothing else to do. She had more time to read books in between bus rides. She moved from the condo to a small apartment, and she cut her hair short, just a little longer than her shoulders, but definitely the shortest she had ever had it. She scheduled the weekends for a visit to the Barton family and Mondays for a cup of coffee with her new coworkers. It wasn't much, but. It was more than she had ever had.

She was content.

.

The day that she and him crossed paths again, she was wearing a hideous jumper that her neighbour, a 78 year old woman with love for baking, had knitted for her.

"Natasha," Angela whispered. The other woman was hunched over the table, hiding her face with a book but not so subtly peeking from behind it. "There's a guy checking us out and he's really hot."

"Once again," Natasha whispered back, not even bothering to look. She had to finish the new books catalogue by the end of the day and she was nowhere close to being done. "I'm sorry about your long distance relationship, but you say that all the time."

Still without looking, Natasha knew Angela was rolling her eyes. "I'm serious," she whispered again. "He's like, a perfect human specimen or something."

"You have got to be kidding me," Natasha said, giving in. There was no shutting up the other woman if she didn't. "There's-"

She looked up.

That was a mistake.

Blue eyes that she knew very well was watching her. She froze. Rogers was there, lips parted in surprise when her eyes met his, standing by the far bookshelf on the right. It was the arts section, she knew, registered in the back of her mind. He was wearing the same old leather jacket that he used to wear, and his new hairstyle, it made him looked like he actually belonged in this century, for once. (Now she knew why he had always seemed out of place.)

Her first instinct was to run. But, what would happen next? Would she have to leave again? Stop coming to her job, drop herself from the surface of the earth like she was used to doing?

No, not this time.

She stood her ground. She let him make the first move.

She was half hoping that he would just, turn around and pretend he hadn't seen her, but of course - he had never been anything if not stubborn, and hey, there was the stubborn clench of his jaw. He had made up his mind.

Angela was practically squealing with excitement next to her, but Natasha ignored her. He was walking to their desk. She -

"Natalie," he said.

"That's not my name," Natasha said, ruthless and cold.

No one had ever accused her of being nice.

.

They both didn't want to make a scene and there was an empty study room on the second floor. Angela had been more than happy to switch their break time once she figured out that the guy was someone Natasha knew, winking at her in what was supposed to be encouragement.

The door closed behind them. She shut the blinds to the hallway.

"Well," she said, quickly, he was staring at her and she didn't want to read him. He was too close, she moved away, one step to her left. "First of all don't bother trying to arrest me. You'll get nothing. Second, I'll appreciate it if you just forget that you saw me and we go on our separate ways. How's that?"

He said nothing, still staring at her with that weird look, she resisted the urge to squirm, she was embarrassingly out of practice, but that didn't mean she couldn't fake it - and the silence stretched a little longer until he finally spoke.

"You cut your hair," he said, and huh, she hadn't expected that.

"You did too," she said, and he shifted his weight from one foot to another.

"How long have you been in New York?" He asked, and she couldn't get his angle here, why he wasn't losing his shit over her being there and all the lies that she had told and the people she had killed. Why he was here making small talks when she wanted to scream at him for hiding his identity from her and causing her to lose _everything_ – how hypocrite of her, wasn't it?

But, here was another thing—

She couldn't figure out why she wanted to play along.

"Five months," she answered, and he gave her a small smile. It was strained, not his smile, the one that she remembered to light up his eyes, but it was a smile nonetheless. Not that she remembered it. She definitely didn't.

"I live in DC now," he said.

"I know," she replied, that was probably too much information, and she knew it, because he seemed to have realized what it implied. Maybe she did that on purpose. Maybe she wanted to see his reaction. Maybe she hadn't changed; maybe she still enjoyed having control on her fingertips. She was not disappointed. The mood dampened in an instant.

"Since when have Fury and Barton been in on this?" He said, and it was like an itch she couldn't scratch, the curiosity in her at the quiet anger in him, the one lurking beneath the surface. She realized she had never seen him angry, not like this.

"Are you that gullible to believe I could have escaped on my own?" He squared his shoulders, a bad habit, she wanted to chide him. It made it easy to tell that he had something stupid in his mind. "I know you aren't, you've just been deluding yourself, letting yourself believe what you want to believe."

"Since I don't know who the hell you were, I could't have possibly make the right decision, now, could I?" He snapped, and this was what she had been waiting for, it was. Three years, and she still knew which buttons to push, nevermind that they had been someone else entirely then.

"For the record," she said, calmly, and she felt more alive than she had ever felt in a really long time, ever familiar adrenaline in her veins. His eyes flashed. "I don't know who you were either."

.

By the way he had turned around and left that day, so, so, furious, the taste of empty victory on her lips, she hadn't expected to see him again.

Annoyingly, he just had to prove her wrong.

He was back at the end of the week, on a Friday, with determination in his movement, aware that she was observing him as he browsed through the books she had just stacked earlier that day. _Annoyingly stupid asshole_ , she thought. But what other kind of person would dive an airplane into a frozen ocean and still be on it?

She made a point of not acknowledging him, and he made a point of grabbing a book hastily before he settled down on a chair and started reading just a table away from her reception desk. She glared at him, but the message was lost when he wouldn't even glance at her direction.

So be it. _Two can play that game._

.

He came back the next Friday, the Friday after that, and the next, and so on, and she had sworn Angela into secrecy, but rumor spread nonetheless. The staffs put two and two together and they assumed that they were together but she was embarrassed to admit it. They started to engage him in conversations, and to her utter horror, they loved him. It was frustrating.

One Friday she woke up on the wrong side of the bed. Her coffee was not helping and she wasn't looking forward to see him so she persuaded Arthur to switch shifts with her and spent her usual shift time to smoke with Bethany at the back alley, sitting on the emergency stairs.

He found her. Fucking great. Just what she needed.

Bethany excused herself with a conspiratory smirk, and Natasha took a drag from the cigarette between her fingers. She blew the smoke slowly from her lips, watching it curl on the sky.

"Smoking kills, you know," he said, frowning, blond hair messy from the wind.

She didn't feel like telling him that this was her first time smoking outside of a mission and that she had always hated how it burned her lungs and made her feel dirty all over; it was none of his business, so she took another long drag just to spite him.

"What are you doing?" She asked him warily, when he leaned on the wall in front of her, no sign of any intention to leave anytime soon.

"No need to worry about me," he said drily. "Enhanced methabolism, remember? The smoke wouldn't kill me. Can't say the same for you."

"No," she said, waving a hand in a big gesture. "This. Why are you here? Why do you keep coming back? What the hell do you want?"

He had a thoughtful look on him, and she was surprised that he was actually considering the question. She hadn't expected him to do anything other than merely brushing it off. "I was just thinking," he said, a bit too quiet. But there was nobody else in the alley other than them and she could hear him perfectly fine. "What happened was-"

"If you're looking for an apology, you're not getting one."

He looked at her, bemused. "And I'm not expecting one."

"Good."

"It was just that, what happened was so sudden," he said, shrugging. "And I'm not expecting anything, but running away wouldn't solve anything either. We can avoid it all we want, but this one is unfinished and it sucks." He glanced at her. "I have enough unfinished businesses piling in one lifetime; in the end they just turned into regrets - and I guess, I decided I won't let this one be that - _unfinished_."

She didn't know why, but the way he was so calm pissed her off. She wanted to lash out. "You know what that is? Why you're not looking for an apology? Sure, that is one fucking great speech, Rogers, but that is just bullshit." She angrily dropped her cigarette beneath her shoe to shut it out. "I'm sure that is true to some extent, that you really feel that way deep down somewhere, but here's the truth. The truth is you told me the exact same lies, and you hurt _Natalie_ just as bad, but I am a murderer and a liar, so of course when I did it, it would always look way worse. But Rogers," she said, standing up. "I have always been a murderer and a liar; and I have a feeling you haven't always been a liar, so this is the core root of the problem: you need to accept that you were just as bad and you've known it all along. Maybe not the murderer part, but definitely the liar thing. Because here is your guilt acting out, and frankly, it's getting tiring."

This time, she was the one who walked away.

.

 **To be continued.**

.


	11. Chapter 11

.

 **Author's note:** Happy New Year! I hope I did this chapter justice. Enjoy:)

 **Warning:** There's a section in this chapter that is mature themed, but nothing really graphic. You can skip over it if you want.

.

She wasn't wrong.

It had been the guilt in him talking. Partly. The other part: well, he had meant what he said. He didn't want to leave things unfinished. He just couldn't figure out the right way to do it, finish things.

There had been something in her words, though. Something that nagged in his mind that night, from the inside of his hotel room. He had to find her.

 _Give me Natalie's address_ , he texted Clint. _And I don't want to get into the argument right now._

Steve had confronted him rightaway after he had found out about Natalie, and let's just say that it hadn't gone smoothly. There was a long silent moment as Clint was typing. Steve stared at his phone screen.

 _She goes by Natasha now,_ Clint replied, but there was an address attached to it. Steve could imagine the archer's disapproving look. _Don't screw this up_.

.

He used the car that Tony always leant to him whenever he was in town to drive to her apartment. It was a little past two am, but her place wasn't that far from where he was staying, so it didn't take him very long.

To be perfectly honest: the three years since New York had been an - _adjustment_ for him. At first he couldn't quite grasp it, _try_ \- try imagining your life as a carpet you were standing on, but then someone wrenched it away from you so fast that you couldn't even land on your feet. What had made it profound, for him, was the fact that it hadn't been the first time. He had said it before, and it was true, it felt like after the ice all over again, everything changing so drastically that he couldn't even fathom jumping back into his routines. So he hadn't tried. He had quit his job at the Stark Industry; and when Fury had offered him to lead the STRIKE team, he had said yes. Then he had moved to DC, because the job was there and he had nothing left in New York anyway. Not really. Avenging was his part time job, but. They didn't go on missions as much anymore since the government had decided to make them public knowledge, just to the ones that were really world threatening. Believe it or not, contrary to the popular belief and the public's paranoia - it wasn't that often.

The more he had turned over all the scenarios in his head over and over, just like he had played Bucky's fall in his mind like a madman, the more he realized that he had seen this mess coming all along. Maybe not her lies, not her trying to kill him, not her almost dying and definitely not her _leaving,_ at least _not that way_ \- but he had known his secret identity was bound to bring wreckages into his life, he just hadn't been sure in what way. It had turned out that the thing it had chosen to destroy was his - their relationship. Truthfully - yes, even if she hadn't been lying, he had had no expectation of her accepting the fact that he had lied to her. Even with Laura's assurances back then, he hadn't thought _Natalie_ would ever forgive him, had even steeled a hidden part of himself to the possibility of her leaving him. He had never thought the outcome would be the same; just to a different process altogether, one that had been a cause of an unknown variable, and he hadn't wanted to find out how unprepared he actually was.

But he had already gone through three years of - what he meant to say was, he had thought about it quite a lot, and she was wrong in the same way that she was right. Yes, it was the guilt in him talking. But no, he wasn't in denial about it. He had known; he had accepted it. He had been a liar, and he was not proud of it, but the blame of what had happened -

It was his too.

So he wasn't riding up the elevator in her apartment building at two in the morning to tell her that she was right, or that she was wrong, something else was in his mind, something -

"Why couldn't you take a goddamn clue and leave?" She said, and he didn't know what it meant, that she had opened her door for him. She didn't look like she had been sleeping, arms crossed in front of her chest. "Should I slam this door in front of your face to make things clearer?"

He couldn't register what she was saying. "You said -," he murmured, the words stuck in his head without any right way to get them out, _why - why was the question, wasn't it?_ "You said I hurt Natalie just as bad." Her eyes widened in surprise; he had caught her off guard. He held her gaze. "Did I hurt you?"

Then, her expression shuttered closed again. This one he knew, this one he recognized, this one he had seen countless times before. This was her, _the woman he_ \- out of her comfort zone, trying to regain control. "How delusional are you?" She said, sharply. "There was no Natalie; and you certainly are never important enough to hurt me."

Her words, they didn't rile him. Instead, they made him calmer, more purposeful, somehow. He exhaled. "You were right," he said. "I didn't want an apology from you because I knew it was also my fault. But maybe I've been seeing it wrong," he paused. She was so still, unmoving, watching him. "And maybe you don't want this, but _hell_ , I guess I'm doing this for myself, mostly. Selfish, I know. But here we go," he took a deep breath. "For what it's worth: I'm sorry." He hadn't realized, not until he had spoken it out loud, how much he had needed to say it. It didn't magically make his chest feel lighter, but it allowed him to breathe easier, just a little bit. " _Natasha_ \- isn't it? I'm sorry for everything. I'm not looking for your forgiveness, or acceptance, I just need you to hear this. Because some part of me," he smiled at her, sincere. "Hasn't exactly forgiven you either." There was no heat in his words. It was just the way it was. There were no quick fixes; there were no shortcuts for this. He wasn't even sure there was a way to completely get over this. He just knew that if they tried, they would get to this point where they both could truly look at this and muster enough - enough acceptance, enough apathy to truly move on.

Well, by _they_ , he meant _him_.

He had never been someone who ran away from his problems, not when he could face them, so that was the real reason why he was there, why he had come back to the library, after the very first day he had accidentally bumped into her almost two months ago, even when she had left him feeling betrayed and angry in a way that he hadn't been before. Why it had been easy for him to look over that anger, turn it into - some kind of stubborn determination, when he really wanted to embrace it instead.

She was the one who suddenly looked very, very, angry. She glared at him, shoulders taut. Her bottom lip quivered, and he wondered if she would turn this into a screaming match, right here in her apartment hall, even when he had never heard her raise her voice before. She had never needed to. Her sharp words had always sufficed. But she didn't - scream, or yell, instead, she was very quiet. " _Asshole,_ " she said, before she leaned up to kiss him.

.

 _On a scale of one to ten_ -

How reckless would you rate him?

He skimmed past, the scars on her stomach, because his heart was thudding painfully in his chest, at the reminder, at the bullet wound inches away from her lungs, a raised patch of new skin, and the multiple knife wounds that had been surgically sewed, neatly, barely even visible, but still there nonetheless. She wouldn't appreciate him lingering. Her hands were in his hair, tugging, and her touch felt familiar on his senses; the way she twisted on the sheets and the way she pressed her heels against his back as she kissed him again, hard, teeth grazing his bottom lip, drawing him in.

This was the kind of decision that he would regret, later. Now though, now:

Her movement had always been purposeful, efficient; quick and precise. She wouldn't cross the living room with six steps if she could do it with four, would never wave a goodbye when she could do it with a brisk nod of her head. He had always thought of it to be a - _dancer's thing,_ but it hadn't been, it had been what she had been trained to do.

So the way he had to relearn things: the way her fingers traced his spine mindlessly and the exact way she parted her lips, soundless, mouth bitten red, with a particular snap of his hips, those were surprising.

 _I missed you,_ he wanted to say, because he hadn't forgiven her but that didn't mean he couldn't still - that he hadn't been missing her all this time. Missing her was like - a cold fire, it kept burning and burning in the pit of his stomach, unobtrusive, but aching so quietly it was nearly impossible to ignore.

What had she said, then, her words? Pathetic, that was it was. She had said: _Pathetic, Rogers, to come here and beg for a lie_. Yes yes, he thought, a bit desperate, as she tilted her body to get him a little deeper, and when she reached out for him he shivered, half crazed. He was, he was pathetic. He was so goddamn pathetic that when Bucky had said how Steve always trusted and loved people too much, he hadn't known if it was a compliment or not. (Coming from Bucky it probably was meant to be one, but.)

"You don't miss me," she said breathlessly, against his ear, how did she know, was he that transparent, was it written on the expanse of his skin, or was she speaking from experience? "You only miss the idea of me."

He kissed a spot on her neck, one that he knew would drive her crazy, and she arched her back. How long ago that she had told him, _here_ , when he was learning her for the first time? "Don't," he said, shaking. "Don't tell me how I feel."

She looked at him then, in the darkness, moonlight from the window, cheeks flushed and green eyes glazed. "Stupid," she told him, but it sounded like self-preservation. _Stupid,_ she had said, but she held him a little closer.

.

In the morning he woke up and the bed was empty.

There wasn't a pang of disappointment in his chest, just acceptance; and that seemed to be a theme in his life, _acceptance_. He gathered his clothes from the floor and put them on, noticing his surrounding for the first time. The ceiling was high, and the room was decent sized. There weren't that many furniture in it, just the bed and a small table beside it with stacks of books on top of it. He hadn't gone to her old apartment that much when they were - he wasn't sure that the term _dating_ applied to them, but this place, it seemed more alive. He made sure he closed the bedroom door behind him and -

The thing was, he had been so prepared to wake up alone that he had to blink twice when he found her sitting on the living room couch, legs stretched underneath her. There was a bowl of cereal on the coffee table.

"Okay," she said. "Let's do this."

"This?" He echoed.

"Yes, this," she quirked an eyebrow, impatient because he didn't understand what she meant right away. "This. How do we _finish_ things?" When he just looked at her she continued. "Fine," she said, elaborating some more. "I agree, I've thought about what you said and I'm not going to run, or avoid it. Let's get this over with so we can go on our own ways. _Just_ , tell me what I need to do."

"It doesn't work like that," he replied, shaking his head.

She seemed frustrated, it was an honest expression, she wasn't hiding anything, she was letting him see. "Then how? How does it work?"

"I don't know," he answered. "We'll just have to let it run its course."

"You were supposed to be the one well versed in this emotional shit," she said. "I'm the one who was brainwashed so many times ever since I could remember." He was sure the look on his face could be described as horrified, because she grinned, self-deprecating, dark humor. "Too soon?"

.

If he consulted Sam, like he had pretended to do all this time (he had tried, and Sam was great, but Steve just couldn't put an effort into it because it didn't work on him), the first advice the other guy would give him was this: _talk it out._

So they did, or they attempted to, at least.

 _He sounds like a swell guy,_ Natalie, Natasha said, drily.

 _He saved your life,_ he replied, and didn't look at her.

 _Tell him I said hi._ They were sitting on his hotel balcony, because he had agreed he wouldn't visit her at the library anymore and meeting at public places wouldn't do. This was two weeks after – _after_. The cars were driving by on the street below them and they were loud because it was New York, but somehow they felt far. Somehow he felt separated from the world, watching them from here, six floors up.

"Where do we start?" She asked. She propped her chin up with one hand, elbow on the table between them. He suspected the only reason she had agreed to this was because they both had a common ground. They had questions that needed answers. She wasn't someone who would be satisfied with unanswered questions. At least, Natalie hadn't been. He suspected Natasha wasnt't either.

"From the beginning, I suppose," he said.

"Great," she deadpanned. "Then talk."

He ran his hand through his hair; it was hard to begin. "When we met at the gallery, did you arrange that?"

"No," she said. "I was in town for another mission. You were just a distraction."

He hadn't realized how tense he had been until he heard the answer. That had been one of the main questions bothering him, if she had chosen him from a list of targets. Clinical, cold, and detached. Knowing she hadn't should make him feel better, but it didn't. That wasn't enough. He took a deep breath. "And later, when you came over to my art studio - you just moved to New York then, was that - ?"

"Let me save you some time," she said. "My assignment was to build an American identity. The Red Room needed active agents in the US. You were convenient for me because you had connections and I had to branch out. The rest, well."

 _The rest was just him being a fool._ He clenched a hand on his lap, hidden from view underneath the table. "Did you know that I'm Captain America?"

This one he believed that already knew the answer to; he had to ask anyway.

She snorted. "No," she leaned back against her chair. "That was a good one though. I never pegged you as a liar." Yeah, he hadn't either. He wanted to laugh, or cry, he was so very tired; he hadn't decided. "Did you know I had ties to the Red Room?"

"No," he replied. "Absolutely no idea."

Something flitted on her face so quickly and it looked like - "Okay," she said, and her voice was steady, controlled. "Do you want to know what was frustrating to me? I was the best in the business; and I was good at reading people, at the lies they tell, because that's what I've been doing my entire life. But there you were, and I didn't even _realize_ you were lying."

He wasn't sure on how to respond to that, so he stayed silent, letting her continue. He was - _ashamed_ , to say the least. Being a good liar had never been something he strived to be. (And there was also the guilt). Yet she didn't add anything else, seemingly done with her part, letting the silence linger.

He hesitated, finally. "How much of it was a lie?"

She smiled. "Isn't that _the_ question?"

 _No_ , he wanted to say. _That's not the one._ That was not the main question that had been haunting him, all these long years, each shadow on the street that he thought had been hers. For him, the question was this: _Did you ever love me?_

But he didn't ask her that.

.

Instead of piling everything together as one guaranteed messed up session, because at least they were smart enough to make this decision, although she hadn't seemed pleased at the prospect of having to see him again and again, they decided to just meet up whenever he was in New York and the both of them were up to it. (Thank you to Stark jets).

On their second one, three weeks after the first, he was lethargic, tired, and she was impassive. They sat in his hotel room in silence for ten minutes, him on the small armchair and her on the bed, until she got up and left without saying anything. He locked the door behind her, knowing she wasn't coming back.

Third, fourth, five: the same thing.

On their sixth one, she stayed more than twenty minutes, determination on her face when she had first arrived, and he told her about the times when he had claimed he was on a business trip when in truth he had been on missions, and she said: _Rogers, my ballet tours were murder trips._ He said: _I've always disliked Valentina._ And they both were surprised when she laughed.

It was easier then, as if her laughter broke the tension somehow, at least for him. He started to talk more in the following meetings, small things, such as when he was born, tidbits about his past that he had altered the first time around, and how he met the other Avengers. Most of the time she listened, or answered his questions, the ones he kept mundane, then the other times she said something like _remember when you bought me frozen yoghurt whenever you picked me up from teaching? I hate frozen yoghurt -_ or on the rare occassions, she told him vague sentences on what she had been doing in the last three years. But something was - still. Something was still holding her back, yet all that mattered to him was that she was trying.

That wasn't to say it was always smooth sailing. Some days she texted him: _No_. Some days he didn't tell her he was in the city. Others, they were just straightforward explosive and full of razor sharp words that were meant to hurt. Usually when that happened then they would stay out of each other's way for two weeks or more.

Clint, Laura, and Sam knew what was happening but they weren't saying anything. Tony, who he hadn't told but - Tony was Tony, of course he knew, merely gave him a meaningful look and a _just be sure on what you're doing._ The problem was Steve wasn't. He wasn't sure on what he was doing now, and he was downright confused whenever they had their bad days, no understanding whatsoever on why he was doing this, was this even something he could get closure on, or why did he keep coming back -

But there were also days when she would say: _Your singing voice is awful. If I wasn't playing the devoted girlfriend I would have told you how it sounds like fingernails on a chalkboard_ \- and he would come back to DC with a good night sleep and feeling better than, _than_ -

So the cycle kept going.

.

"You look better," Laura said, six months in, perceptive eyes.

"Well," Steve shrugged, uncomfortable.

"Uncle Steve," Lila said. "Can you draw me with Auntie Nat?"

"Lila," Laura reprimanded, gently. "We talked about this."

.

He tried not to compare Natasha with Natalie. He really did. But he couldn't. It was as if his brain was catching the signs on purpose and sorting them out without him even noticing.

It turned out thatNatasha wasn't a stranger to him.

It took him some getting used to, yes. She was more straightforward, and less likely to speak what was on her mind. When she did, the words were calculated and sharp and usually they left him reeling. She was also a bit colder at times, but it was the same way as Natalie had been, back in the beginning when they had first met. Natasha was Natalie, the little things he had noticed, the insecurities, and the subtleness in her.

He couldn't decide whether it was a good thing or a bad thing: she was the same person he had –

(He had hoped that she wasn't; just to make things easier.)

.

One particular afternoon he went to New York after a bad mission with the STRIKE team earlier that day. There was a deep gash on his side from a sword, because he certainly hadn't expected to meet someone who used swords in Atlanta these days, and it throbbed with his every movement. But he was used to worse, even though this one would take a while to heal, so he went on his business as usual. New York merely consisted of running some errands at the Stark tower and meeting Natasha. He could handle that much.

"What's wrong with you?" She asked, scrunching her nose, appraising him the second he opened the door for her.

"What?"

She walked past him into the room, glancing at him over her shoulder. He closed the door and followed her. Her gaze turned calculating again. "You're hurt," she said, flatly.

For some reason he remembered back alleys and raised fists, and he got defensive. He wasn't sure why. "I'm fine," he said. "Just a mission that went slightly wrong."

She looked incredulous. " _Slightly wrong_ was the normal bruises you usually have." He didn't know she had been paying attention. "Sit down. You look like you're about to collapse."

He planted his feet firmly on the floor. He did feel a little dizzy, but it was nothing he couldn't ignore. It was just a side effect from the blood loss. "I really am fine."

"Don't be an idiot," she said, and he could see something ticking in her, but he didn't know what. "Sit down."

"There's nothing wrong with me," he told her again, more persistently this time.

"Okay. Whatever you say," she said, and he was about to ask her something else to divert the conversation when she suddenly pulled a fast one on him, a quick movement of her leg that had him falling on the bed with her sprawled on top of him. The breath got knocked out of his lungs and he let out a hiss when he felt sharp pain on his side. " _That_ ," she said, self-satisfied, victorious. So close that he could feel her breath tickling his face. "Doesn't seem alright."

"Alright, ow, _fine_ ," he said, annoyed, wincing. "I got into a little fiasco with swords, that's all. I didn't see that coming."

She straightened up, really casual, continuing the conversation as if she wasn't _straddling_ his hips. "You run around in tights with a guy shooting medieval arrows while carrying a giant-metallic-disc-plate-thing and you didn't see _swords_ coming?" She snorted. "It's common knowledge that traditional assassins are well versed with swords, it's methodical and are a lot easier than knives to reach in the middle of a fight."

"Apparently no one gave me the memo," he said, with a slight grimace as the throbbing of his wound died down. Then, slightly quieter: "Maybe get off me?"

She looked down, thoughtful, as if she just realized their position, before she moved with one smooth movement to sit on the bed next to him, cross legged. "Let me see," she said, and maybe it was _this -_ the way she asked him, sudden hesitancy masked behind a mask of sureness, her fingers curled on the bed cover - She didn't say please, but it was unspoken in the air. He swallowed, sitting up himself.

He lifted his shirt slightly. There were traces of bruisings on his skin, close to fading. However, the sword wound was still red and angry on his right side, the stiches tidy and surgical. Her face was unreadable, and he tensed up when she reached out, slowly, as if she didn't want to spook him. He stayed still.

"That's a piece of work," she commented, but her touch was tender, the slightest brush of cool fingertips near the reddened area. He exhaled, cataloging her, trying to read her. She gave a sadornic smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Did you catch the _bad guys_?"

"They were smugglers," he replied. Her fingers traced the outline of the scar, lightly. He repressed a shudder. "And yeah we got them."

Her hand stopped moving, but she kept her skin pressed to his.

"I killed a lot of people." She said, out of the blue, and there wasn't any emotion in her voice, just pure curiosity. "Doesn't it disgust you?"

He pondered the question, because he knew it wasn't the sort that he could just answer rightaway even when he had made up his mind. He was shocked she was asking him that; but he didn't want to show it. Something was telling him that she had wanted to ask this for sometime now. He didn't know what, but he was sure. "No," he said. And it disappointed him, pierced to his heart somehow, that there was genuine surprise in her, as if she had expected him to tell her that she _disgusted_ him. "People seem to always forget that I was in the war." He smiled at her softly, honest. "What happened to you - I'm not going to pretend that I understand or even know half of them, but I do know that they are things that shouldn't have happened to anyone. What matters is that you tried to make amends, Nat. And you did."

She moved her fingers away and he could see her taking his words into account, the gears turning in her head. The moment seemed to stretch into forever, and he didn't feel like he was breathing, until she said, seemingly normal, if not for the way she held his gaze, and the openness in her, displayed in her body language, something he had never seen before. She was not shaking, but there was - this, she was not steady either. When she offered him - this, he knew what the answer would be. "Would you like to know?"

There was no other answer for him, other than yes.

.

When she started talking, it came as a burst of - words, jumbled thoughts, strings that didn't connect to anywhere, quietly voiced. He had the sense that she had never done this before, so he let her go on her own pace. Now that she had started, it seemed like she had difficulty stopping. Sometimes she talked and had difficulty following her own train of thoughts, sometimes she talked until her voice was hoarse, and the other times there was frustration in her, pinched in her features, as if she couldn't quite convey what she wanted to. This was her, Natasha, at the most honest she had been.

She told him about growing up in the Red Room, her handlers, someone named the Winter Soldier who had given her the name Natasha, her missions, and someone named Yelena who had helped her in the past. She told him about taking down the Red Room, what she did all the time they spent apart, and how the Bartons were the first people to welcome her for who she was with open arms (and she also said that she thought they were ridiculous to do so).

For the times she couldn't talk, he told her about the war, Bucky, Peggy, the ice, waking up in the modern world and how it felt. It was only fair. She still grew withdrawn; it was her way to compensate telling him too much. He let her have her space.

Most of their sessions now left him exhausted. It was - a lot to take in, a lot to process. It had been horrible, what she had gone through, and it was like someone had doused him with ice water, when she described the Red Room's training methods to him. No one should have gone through that, what the Red Room had done. He didn't tell her he understood, because he didn't. She seemed to appreciate it. In return, she told him that she understood, how it felt to be coming home from a fight that never truly ended.

He believed her.

.

He came in to his hotel room with a box of pizza on his hand to find her already inside, and he didn't even bother to ask her _how_. She was - She looked disgruntled, and it stopped him on his track. She scrutinized him, tilting her head. "Why don't you have your sketchbook with you?"

He frowned. "Did you go through my things?"

"I got bored waiting in the lobby," she answered. "Well?"

"I just don't," he replied, defensively. He didn't feel like telling her that he couldn't remember when he had last drawn anything, that his sketches were littered with nightmares. "Why the sudden interest?"

"You didn't tell me you're not working in Stark's art department anymore."

"I'm not," he said, not understanding why it bothered her. "Sorry, did I forget to tell you that? SHIELD has been busy, that's all."

The lines on her face grew deeper, and had she been someone who had less poise, he thought she would have flailed her arms and stomped her feet. He started to worry that something was truly wrong, " _Nat_?"

"But you loved it," she blurted out, and then she looked embarrassed, but even more determined. He blinked. "You loved working there, you loved the work, and you loved to draw."

He thought about it. "I suppose I did."

"Then why quit?" She asked, frustration coloring her voice. Her green eyes were bright. "If you love something then you're not supposed to quit."

His lips were suddenly dry. "Yeah," he said, softly. "Fair enough."

"You'll give it another try, then?" She asked, tapping her feet. What do you know, he would probably get to see her stomping her feet in the future after all.

He nodded, and it was probably not much of an agreement, but she seemed satisfied with his answer, there was that ever so subtle little nod to herself that she always did unconsciously in approval.

"I brought pizza," he said, and she dropped herself on the bed, grabbing for the remote.

"Ooh, speaking of the obvious," she said. "Mushrooms?"

"And cheese," he said, sitting down next to her, putting the box of pizza on the bed.

She chose a movie on the pay-per-view but he couldn't pay attention to what it was. He couldn't stop looking at her.

She noticed him staring and arched a brow, taking a bite into her pizza. "Is there something on my face?"

"No," he said, reaching for a slice of his own. "You're fine."

.

 **Author's note:** Whoops next chapter is the last one. Disclaimer: the _is there something on my face line_ is a reference to The Edge of Tomorrow movie because that movie is amazing.


End file.
